


Six

by laceymcbain



Series: Shadows & Stone:  Six [1]
Category: DCU, Smallville, Spider-Man (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, Friendship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Novel, Protectiveness, Slash, Torture, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 72,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laceymcbain/pseuds/laceymcbain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story begins at the elegant party being held in New York City for Excelsior Prep, whose illustrious alumni include Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, and Harry Osborn.  But something goes terribly wrong and six of the world's most intriguing men disappear into thin air.</p><p>When the story begins, Clark/Lex have an established long-term relationship, Dick and Bruce are struggling with their feelings, Harry and Peter are best friends (timeline post-Spiderman 1).</p><p>This is a Work in Progress. This is not abandoned, but real life intervened.  I'm working on it again (2011).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Alumni Party

"Clark, are you ready? The limo's waiting." Lex was pacing back and forth in their luxurious suite at the New York Regency.

Clark stepped out of the bathroom, bow tie hanging loose around the collar of his tuxedo shirt.

Lex rolled his eyes affectionately and sighed.

"C'mere," he said gesturing with his fingers.

Clark complied and went to stand in front of Lex, whose praticed hands reached up and started to wrap the folds together.

"I can't believe you still can't tie a bow tie."

"Maybe I just like having you do it," Clark said smiling. "Ever think of that?"

Lex smiled back, adjusting the tie. He smoothed his hands over the shoulders of Clark's tux. It was a scene that had been repeated countless times.

"There. Perfect. And the tie's not bad either." Lex looked up expecting a smile on Clark's face. He was surprised to see that Clark looked distracted.

"Do you think going tonight is really a good idea, Lex?"

"It's a high school alumni event, Clark. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Yeah, but I thought you didn't like being at Excelsior anyway."

"I didn't, but it had its moments. And there are a few of my classmates that I still like. Plus it's politically expedient for me to go. Excelsior's alumni make up a large number of this country's businessmen and political players."

Lex knew that Clark hated political functions, but he usually went along anyway. Tonight, though, he was restless in a way that Lex hadn't seen in quite some time. He grabbed Clark's hands and led him to the edge of the bed, pulling Clark down to sit beside him.

"Clark, what's going on? You're as fidgety as when you were sixteen. Is there a reason you don't want to go to this with me?"

"No, it's not that." Clark sighed. "Well, okay, yes, it is that, but ..."

"But?"

"I just don't want to disappoint you, that's all."

Lex reached his hands out and cupped Clark's face. He pulled him into a solid, comfortable kiss. "You never could. Do you know how much I love you?"

"Jeez, Lex, if you start with that we'll never get out of here," Clark said, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks.

"Clark, you have nothing to be nervous about. I had a couple of people I considered friends at Excelsior, but these fund-raisers are mostly about business contacts. You've already met the only person from there who ever mattered to me."

"Bruce?"

"Yeah, Bruce."

"Well, see, that's the other reason why this is going to be weird, Lex."

"Because you know Bruce?"

"Because I know Batman."

"So? No one's going to figure out your secret identities because you attend my alumni fund-raiser. I promise. It'll probably be the safest school function in history. That should make you happy."

"Lex, if you and Bruce are both there, safe is probably not the appropriate word to use."

Lex shot an unconvincing glare in Clark's direction and tried to pull the conversation back to Clark's concerns. "Most of my classmates probably know you're a reporter, so they'll either be eager to bend your ear hoping to get positive press or they'll avoid you like cheap scotch. Nothing to worry about. We'll say hi to a few people, I'll write a cheque for an obscene amount of money, and we'll come back here and I'll make you forget about everything else."

Lex punctuated his sentence with a thorough exploration of Clark's warm mouth.

"Promise?" Clark's words came out breathy, hands holding Lex a little harder than was absolutely necessary.

"I promise, Clark. There's nothing to worry about."

***

"Stop looking at me like that, Dick. We'll put in an appearance, say hi to Lex and Clark, write a cheque and then find something else to do."

"I still don't like it."

"It's an alumni fund-raiser. What could happen?"

"Well, with you and Lex in the same room things do tend to get broken."

"That was only the once, and it's not my fault that he couldn't execute a Jiu Jitsu kick without shattering the school's trophy case."

"Who taught him that kick?"

"That's beside the point."

"What about the Mayor's limousine?"

"How were we supposed to know the bridge was under construction? Anyway, you and Clark will both be there tonight. What's wrong?"

"I just have a bad feeling, that's all."

"You don't have to come, you know."

"I'll worry more if you leave me sitting at home."

"There's nothing to worry about. You and me and Clark can certainly handle anything that comes up, and Lex is no slouch despite his appalling lack of technique sometimes. He has been taught properly; he just chooses to put his own spin on things. Stop worrying. Nothing's going to happen."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Dick."

***

"Harry, tell me again why you want me to go to this thing with you?"

"I already told you, Pete. I'm not seeing anybody right now, and I don't want to go to an alumni event alone, especially when it's in my own city. Besides, you can get some great photos. Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor were both in my class, and Lex's partner, Clark Kent, is a junior reporter for the Daily Planet. I think you'll like him."

"Yeah, I've read some of his investigative reports with Lois Lane. They've done some good work. Must be hard being attached to Luthor, though."

"Well, Lex's reputation is a lot worse than he deserves. His father's the real tyrant."

"What is it with billionaires and their fathers, anyway?" Peter said with a laugh, then instantly regretted it.

"You're not actually comparing Lionel Luthor and my father, are you, Pete? Norman Osborn was a scientific genius. He had a PhD in biochemistry. Luthor made his fortune destroying people's companies and blackmailing anyone who opposed him."

"Harry–"

"No, Pete, it's okay. I don't know why I expected you to understand, you being my best friend and all. Forget I asked. Catch you later."

"Harry–" Peter's voice fell on deaf ears as Harry stormed out of the apartment they shared. Peter sunk onto the couch, and let his head fall into his hands. Great, just great. He had a feeling this night was going to turn out to be a disaster.

***

"Hey, Lex."

"Harry. Your friend Peter didn't come?"

"Something came up." Lex noticed that Harry–who'd once succeeded in drinking an entire college football team under the table in less than twenty minutes–was sipping his champagne with very little enthusiasm. And it was excellent champagne.

"Too bad. I wanted to introduce him to Clark. Figured they could talk journalism instead of being bored silly with all the business stuff."

"Speaking of that, how's LuthorCorp these days?"

"I'm still battling with Dad, but LexCorp is moving into some really interesting areas of technology. I'm getting a chance to play in the labs again. Get back to my roots, so to speak."

"Yeah, Lex, if your roots are centred in a nineteenth-century gothic novel."

Lex smirked. He didn't think that Clark would appreciate the Dr. Frankenstein comparison, but Lex had a particular fondness for the 1931 film version.

"And you? How's OsCorp? I was sorry to hear about your Dad."

"Thanks. The company's taken a few hits, but you probably already know that." Lex smiled a noncommital response. "I've been restructuring, and things are starting to feel more under control. It almost felt like I was living two lives there for awhile."

"I know how that feels." Lex put a friendly hand on Harry's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He tried to remember when comforting gestures had become part of his natural repertoire. He supposed that was Clark's influence. "I've got to catch Bruce before he ducks out. He hates these things. We have a research project we're looking to fund with progressive-minded investors. Should I give you a call sometime with the specs?"

"Do that. I'm continuing my father's program in the high-tech areas."

"I'll send the information over."

"Good to see you, Lex."

"You too, Harry."

***

Clark surveyed the scene before him with all the enthusiasm of a man about to face a firing squad.

"Clark? You look troubled."

"Dick!" Clark turned and pressed the young man into a warm embrace. Dick Grayson was only a few years younger than he was, and Clark had grown very fond of Bruce's energetic ward. Well, ex-ward, now since Dick was nineteen and very much an adult. Of course, Clark wasn't sure Bruce had realized that. Dick was an amazing counterpoint to Bruce's brooding temperament. Dick was bright and lively and gave the impression that he couldn't sit still–exactly the opposite of Bruce's calm, stoic behaviour. He and Dick always had a lot of fun at these society parties–they were much more alike than the difficult, focussed men with whom they shared their lives.

"Lex sent me over here with instructions to bring back Russian caviar, which I think is that stuff–" Clark pointed to a small bowl filled with a suspicious black goo.

"–goose liver pate, which I've narrowed down to either that or that–"

Clark waved his hand towards two small plates featuring greyish lumps and crackers.

"–and something that started with a 'c'."

"Canapés?"

"No, that wasn't it."

"Crudités?"

"That sounds right. What is it?"

"Vegetables."

"You're kidding. Why didn't he just say that?"

"He probably thinks he did. Bruce is the same way. They tend to forget that most of us don't have six words for everything."

"Yeah, imagine my surprise when I realized that the aubergine shirt he bought was not, in fact, Lex striking out in a bold new fashion direction, but was just a fancy French word for purple."

Dick snickered. Clark loaded a plate with cut vegetables, a generous blob of the black goo, two slices of pate–one from each of the greyish lumps–and a handful of crackers.

"Champagne, gentlemen?" A man in a dark grey uniform held a silver tray out to the two of them. Clark helped himself, but saw Dick shake his head.

"If you want one, young man," the waiter said in a kindly voice, "I certainly won't tell."

Dick smiled politely. "I'm not much for champagne. Thanks anyway."

Clark glanced back to where Lex was surrounded by a smiling group of businessmen who seemed to be amused by something Lex was saying. Clark noted that Bruce had moved to join the group and was standing comfortably at Lex's side, holding a champagne flute.

From the look of things, they were just getting started. Clark snared a cracker off the plate and turned back to Dick.

"So, what's happening in Gotham these days?"

***

Peter Parker was having a hell of a night. Not only had he managed to royally piss off Harry, but once he'd decided to make amends by following him to the fund-raiser, he'd discovered that the tuxedo Harry had bought him to wear to exactly these sorts of things, was still bearing the scars from the last outing. Peter gazed in horror at the shrimp sauce that looked like a bloody wound splashed across the front of the tuxedo shirt.

"Okay, no tux. I'll wear my suit."

Peter shoved his regular clothes aside and reached towards the back of the closet for the dark navy suit he kept for job interviews and funerals. He brushed the collar of it sadly. He'd worn it to his Uncle Ben's funeral. He had to fight back the feelings of guilt that were threatening to spill from his eyes. He pulled it on over his spider-suit–better safe than sorry–slipping the already knotted tie around his neck, and sliding it up to tighten it. Sure he could shoot webs from his wrists, but he'd never been able to master the half-Windsor. Aunt May had advised him to just leave it tied. Worked for him.

Once he was on his scooter heading for the Hotel New York, he had time to plan an apology to Harry.

 _Sorry that your Dad was a megalomaniac who liked to dress up and kill people._ No, too honest.

 _Sorry, I don't really understand what it's like being the neglected son of a crazed billionaire._ Too snide.

 _Sorry, I've got a lot of my own problems right now, including figuring out how to tell you that the person you hate the most is your best friend and has had a secret crush on you for years._ Peter frowned. No, that wasn't going to work. This was going to be a hell of a lot harder than he thought. Fuck, he bet that Batman and Superman didn't have these problems.

***

"You had them in the palm of your hand, Lex," Bruce said admiringly as they moved away from the small group they'd been pitching ideas to. He'd always respected Lex's abilities as a businessman, but he'd forgotten how genuinely charming Lex could be when he wanted.

Lex's eyes were bright and enthusiastic as they stepped over to a corner to talk.

"I doubt we'll have trouble finding investors for a joint project after tonight. The research LexCorp's been pursuing in fire-retardant materials is starting to look incredibly promising. Add that to Wayne Enterprises' work with rubbers and polymers and this could be a huge technological breakthrough."

Lex took a long slow sip of his champagne and lowered his voice. "Not to mention the practical applications for certain individuals in the crime-fighting business."

"At least Superman's pretty much impervious to fire."

"Yeah, but as much as I like to see him naked, I'd prefer if he didn't get his uniform burned off by flame-throwing mutants first. Scared the hell out of me last time that happened."

"Fire-retardant materials would also have been handy at the last Justice League function," Bruce said, his features unreadable.

"I had no way of knowing that the cake was soaked in rum Who the hell soaks a birthday cake in rum?"

"I've never seen the Flash move so fast. He still thinks you did that on purpose." Bruce was chuckling softly. It was a good sound–like water tumbling over rocks in a deep mountain stream.

Lex smiled and raised his glass. "To flame-retardant friends."

"And safe rubbers," Bruce added, his laughter growing louder and deeper. Lex joined him as they clinked their glasses together, looking pleased with themselves and each other.

***

"Wonder what those two are up to?" Clark said, hearing familiar laughter from across the room. And that wasn't just Lex's social laugh; it wasn't even his the-champagne's-gone-to-my-head-and-I-believe-I-can-do-anything laugh either. It was absolutely genuine. Clark felt a twinge of something he refused to acknowledge.

"Yeah, Bruce doesn't laugh like that often. This probably means something very bad is about to happen."

"I don't see any signs of a lighter."

"No breakables within the immediate vicinity. You'd think Excelsior would've kept better records on those two. They should come with warning labels: volatile when combined; destruction of public property is likely to occur; please make sure all emergency exits are clearly marked."

Clark smiled, but his eyes were still fixed on Bruce and Lex. They were leaning close together now, Bruce clearly inside Lex's usually precisely-defined personal space. His space. Speaking intensely, totally focussed on one another, they were a closed circle of two. Clark saw Lex put a hand warmly on Bruce's arm and had to stop himself from super-speeding across the room to knock it away.

"You know, if you stare at them any harder, one of them's going to burst into flame."

Clark reluctantly turned his gaze back to Dick who was looking at him with concern. He laid a hand on Clark's arm in a mirror image of what Clark had just seen Lex do. He suddenly felt foolish.

"Clark? Is everything okay? With you and Lex, I mean?"

Clark took a sip of his champagne and nodded.

"Everything's great. I just have this bad feeling I can't seem to shake, and it's making me worry about things I honestly haven't worried about in years."

Dick nodded knowingly.

"I mean, I know Lex and I are solid, but sometimes when I see them like that ... do you ever wonder what they were like ... together?"

"Sometimes, but it was a long time ago. You grow up a lot faster in their world."

Clark knew that was true. And he also knew that Lex and Bruce had been really young when they'd had a relationship. Still in school. It said something that they were still friends. Bruce was about the only one of Lex's friends that Lionel hadn't managed to lure away or corrupt with bribes or blackmail. Clark knew that meant everything to Lex. Loyalty and honesty were central to who he was, whether the gossip columnists would believe it or not.

"Clark, they're too much alike in some ways. They would've destroyed each other and they both know it. That's why they need us. We help them find the balance."

Clark turned back with a genuine smile. "When did you get so smart about relationship stuff? You're the youngest of the bunch."

"What can I say? I've learned from hanging out with all you old guys."

"Smart ass."

"Codger."

"Pipsqueak."

"Adult."

"Hey, that's fighting dirty!"

"Seriously, Clark. You and Lex have an awesome relationship. Everybody sees how you are together. You've got something amazing. And I want that with Bruce; it's just not as easy with him. He's got a lot more darkness in him than Lex. You're lucky that you met Lex before Lionel really got a hold on him."

Clark fought back a shudder and gulped a mouthful of champagne. He thought about that a lot. Too much. He'd seen enough of Lionel's influence to know that he would've lost Lex forever–the Lex who laughed out loud and tied his bow ties and cancelled meetings because Clark needed him–and the realization always gave him a chill.

"Thank God, I stopped lying to him. It was worth pissing off my parents. If that had gone on much longer, he never would've forgiven me."

Clark sometimes wondered if the fact that he'd lied at all would ever be completely forgiven. Bruce Wayne was apparently the only person who'd never lied to Lex. Ever. His first lover. First love. A man who didn't lie. It was a lot to compete with, not to mention the whole super-hero thing and Lex clearly had a kink for men in tights.

"Yeah, and the world's got enough criminal masterminds without adding Lex Luthor to the mix. Could you imagine what that brain would be like if it were working for the other side?"

"I can imagine," Clark said quietly, and glanced towards Lex. He caught his eye and Lex gave him a smile that was just for him. Clark beamed back, doubts evaporating like steam, amazed that in a room full of people, Lex could still make him feel as if he were the only one there that mattered.

Clark saw Lex cock an eyebrow and raise his chin at the plate that Clark was holding. It was empty save for a few stalks of celery and a pair of soggy crackers. Clark shrugged sheepishly and turned back to Dick.

"Guess it's back to the buffet."

***

"I swear to God that boy has a hollow leg," Lex said shaking his head as he saw Clark trudge off to the buffet with Dick close on his heels.

"He's not exactly a boy anymore, Lex."

"I know," Lex said softly. "He just doesn't look much different from when he was sixteen. Sometimes he leans in to kiss me and I see the kid who pulled me out of the river."

"Remember when we were sixteen?"

Lex smiled wickedly. He remembered. He'd been out of control at sixteen, dragging Bruce along for the ride. And Bruce had already been so comfortable with darkness and violence and anger. Back then, Lex was set on pissing off the entire world and Bruce stood beside him–occasionally threw himself in front of him–and fought back when the world came looking for revenge. Their relationship had always been tumultuous–passionate and rough, verging on violence or love. It was about sex, hard and dirty, in the dark towers of the school, about clinging to each other like two men drowning. They clawed their way through high school, fucking and fighting, doing everything with absolute commitment and intensity. They would both survive or they would both die. That had always been the understanding. That had always been the deal.

"I remember."

And somewhere along the way they'd also learned how to give and take comfort, how to laugh even if it was only a bitter chuckle dislodged from someplace raw and aching. They'd learned how to use their minds as well as their bodies to give each other pleasure, to challenge, to push, to teach. They knew the value of honesty that cut you wide open and left you on the floor to die. And the kind of loyalty that sent you back to mop up the blood you'd shed in the name of friendship or love or just because you damn well could.

"We're still alive."

It hadn't ended because they'd stopped caring or stopped needing or wanting. It hadn't really ended at all in any conventional way. They'd graduated out of Excelsior, moved on to take up their respective places in their respective cities. They were no longer boys, if in fact they'd ever been. They never discussed it, never shed a tear, or said good-bye, or even had a final fling. Never had just one more night for old times' sake. It was just what it had always been. Part of them. Part of what made them who they were. As necessary as the passage through the birth canal. Another journey where they'd both arrived naked and screaming, terrified and exhilarated and brutally, joyously alive.

"That was the deal."

The most they ever did was have conversations like this. _Do you remember when we were sixteen? I remember._ Where the only thing that changed was who asked the question. The words were written like well-loved scars on their tongues, revealing everything and nothing at all. Nothing that would interfere with their lives, their loves, their jobs and loyalties. But still a gesture. _We're still alive. That was the deal._ Still a promise that meant something. And some days, meant everything.

Lex looked up into eyes that were almost black and for a moment he felt like he was falling. Almost thought he could see the flutter of leathery wings behind those eyes, so close to the surface if anyone cared to look. Lex reached an unsteady hand toward Bruce's face. So familiar. So close he could almost touch it.

"Lex?" Bruce's hands were holding his arms. Too tightly. There was something wrong in Bruce's voice. It'd been a long time, but Lex still recognized the sound. Fear. He tried to smile, but his mouth wouldn't bend the way he wanted. Lex heard conversations getting louder, surging around him as though the room had turned into a carousel of light and whirling sound. He felt dizzy. It sounded like rain was falling hard all around him. Bruce's lips were moving, but nothing was coming out. Lex could feel the hands on his arms, gripping him. Then the world dipped sideways and fell into blackness.

***

Clark turned as soon as he heard Bruce's voice spike with fear, stumbling over Lex's name. He felt as if he'd switched into super-speed, everything seemed to be moving so slowly, except his feet were rooted to the floor. He watched Bruce holding Lex's arms, Lex swaying on his feet seeming to focus on something far away, and then Lex was buckling at the knees, falling limply into Bruce's arms. Clark had the fleeting thought that Lex even managed to look elegant when he fainted. All around the room, people stopped what they were doing. Some reached out for the person they were talking to, some sat down on the floor before slumping over further. Everywhere, people were falling, suddenly, inexplicably struck down.

"Clark!" Bruce's voice shouting at him, Dick at his side tugging on his arm, and then he was moving again at normal speed, listening to the odd thuds of people tumbling to the floor, the almost musical tinkling of glass as champagne flutes shattered on impact.

Then Clark was there gathering Lex into his arms, touching his pale face, feeling for a pulse, strong and regular beneath his fingertips, listening for the sound of–thank God–steady breathing.

"Lex? Lex?" Clark turned to Bruce who was kneeling across from him on the floor, one hand holding Lex's, the other reaching out for Dick.

"What the hell happened, Bruce?" Clark noticed the room was growing steadily quieter. The only ones who seemed to have escaped the sudden lapse into unconsciousness were the three of them and Harry Osborn, who was standing a few feet away looking confused. Harry swallowed another mouthful of champagne.

"I don't know. One second he was fine, and then people started to drop."

"So why are we still standing?"

"That is an excellent question, gentlemen." They looked up to see a tall, well-built grey-haired man in a grey uniform, one of the waiters. He was pointing the barrel of a rather sizable gun in their direction.

***

Peter slapped the hurriedly scrawled note-- _Courtesy of Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man_ -–to the front of the unconscious man's chest and left him for the police to deal with. If this kept up, he was going to have to get a bunch of those notes professionally printed. It was slowing him down to have to worry about writing out his calling card, and it's not like there were a whole lot of other crime fighters who left the bad guys tied up in web. Peter figured it should be obvious, but since he'd started writing the stupid notes in the first place, he felt obligated to continue. It seemed expected now. He'd even had one bank robber ask him to autograph it. Peter had almost wished that he didn't wear a mask, so the guy could get the full effect of the glare Peter had given him. Unbelievable.

He swung himself onto the roof of a nearby apartment building and retrieved his navy suit. Maybe Harry would be happier if he didn't surprise him, Peter thought, as he noticed that being flung onto a rooftop had done nothing for the appearance of the suit. Inexplicably, his tie had come undone, and Peter had no idea how to fix it. He abandoned it as a lost cause and shoved it in his pocket. Maybe Harry would take pity on him when he got to the party.

***

"Move over there, gentlemen," the waiter said, gesturing with the gun. The entire catering staff appeared to be armed. Large bags had appeared from somewhere and Bruce watched as the wait-staff began to divest the unconscious party-goers of their jewellery and wallets. Bruce looked past Clark and started to assess the nature of the threat. Fifteen to twenty heavily-armed men. Possibly more at the entrances and in the kitchen. Well-organized, well-executed. They'd had no way of knowing that certain people–Kryptonians and men who'd studied sleep-resistance with Tibetan monks–were immune to most drugs. Bruce wasn't sure about Osborn, but Harry's tolerance for alcohol had been legendary at Excelsior. Perhaps that was all it was.

Clark glared at the man who was motioning them away from Lex.

"No." Clark was clearly going to be a problem–at least until Lex's own overactive immune system kicked in and bounced him back to reality. Probably in a quarter of the time that everyone else would need to recover. Bruce just hoped Lex had the presence of mind to tune in to his surroundings before revealing that he was awake.

The man with the gun smiled. "You want to see what bullets feel like?"

"Go ahead," Clark said, smiling back. Bruce glared at him. Damn invulnerability.

"Hey, Stan," the grey-haired man called out to a larger man with an even larger gun. He'd just stepped out of the kitchen area. "Kid wants to be a hero."

"Nobody's going to be a hero," Bruce said calmly, never taking his eyes from Clark. Obviously he was going to have to be the voice of reason here.

"What happened, Cain?" the man from the kitchen asked the waiter who seemed to be in charge. "The only one who didn't drink the champagne was him," he said, pointing at Dick. "The rest of them should be in dreamland."

"Good question. Care to explain how the rest of you managed to resist the effects of one of the most potent soporifics available?"

"High metabolism," three male voices said at once.

Cain started to laugh. "Well, at least you've got your stories straight. Still leaves us with a problem, though. See, there weren't supposed to be witnesses. Everyone was supposed to drop off to sleep, junior would get a light knock on the head because he was too young to drink the champagne-–"

Both Bruce and the armed waiter pointedly ignored Dick's indignant "Hey!"

"–-and everybody would wake up in a few hours a little bit sore and a lot less rich. It's not as if you people can't afford to give a little," Cain said bluntly.

"Not all of us here are rich," Clark said angrily, still cradling Lex. "I'm a reporter. Do you know what reporters make?"

Bruce rolled his eyes and hung his head in resignation. Clark was an idiot. Bruce was going to have to buy Lex a leash for him. And quite possibly a muzzle. He almost smiled as he realized that Lex would probably get a huge kick out of that. It might be worth it just to see the look on Clark's face.

"A reporter?" Cain said tightening his grip on the gun. "Isn't that interesting." Clark swallowed awkwardly as he realized what he'd just done. Good, Bruce thought. Let him realize that his actions were going to have consequences for all of them.

"So Cue Ball here is just a rich friend?" Cain said, continuing to direct his questions at Clark. Bruce tried to catch Clark's eye. _Don't do it, Clark. Don't say it._

"Boyfriend," Clark corrected automatically. Bruce pressed his lips together hard. Definitely a muzzle. Bruce wondered when all of Clark's common sense had taken flight. He cast a glance at Lex's pale face, Clark's arms holding him tightly, and Bruce relented. He realized that his own hand was still gripping Lex's. He cast a careful glance up at Dick. Bruce knew exactly how Clark felt.

"Boyfriend?" Cain smirked. "And you hide it so well. Now, I suggest that if you want to see your _boyfriend_ wake up without additional holes in him, you do as I say. Lay him down, and move over there." He motioned again with the gun. "All of you. And I'm not asking nicely again."

Clark finally met Bruce's eyes. Bruce nodded slightly and let go of Lex's hand. "We'll do exactly what you say," Bruce said. "We don't want anyone to get hurt." He moved slowly, nudging Dick gently in the direction that Cain had indicated. Harry moved back against the wall, shifting nervously on his feet. Bruce watched as Clark gently lay Lex down on the floor, large hands cradling his head. He placed one hand on Lex's chest for a brief moment, then stood up and moved to stand beside Bruce against the opposite wall, reluctance clearly dogging every step.

Cain was grinning. "Good. See how pleasant co-operation can be? Now, gentlemen. Kindly empty your pockets."

***

Peter glanced at his watch as he took the elevator to the floor where the fund-raiser was being held. With any luck, Harry hadn't left yet and he'd still have time to have a drink and choke out an apology. He'd decided to go with the simple, but ever popular: "I was a jerk and I'm sorry," possibly followed by dropping to his knees and begging for forgiveness.

As the elevator opened, Peter was surprised that the area was quiet. The party couldn't possibly be over already. Even bad parties never ended before midnight, and Harry's alma mater wasn't noted for bad parties. Quite the opposite. Peter caught the eye of a surly-looking man dressed in a grey staff uniform. He was standing in front of the double doors to the room where the party was supposed to be. Peter saw that the sign announcing the event was right where it should be, but he still couldn't hear any noise coming from within. He felt the fine hairs on his skin raise themselves in warning.

"Can I help you?" the man asked suspiciously.

"Wrong floor," Peter said, stepping back onto the elevator. "Sorry." He was relieved when the door sealed in front of him. He pressed the number for the top floor and started to unbutton his shirt.

***

Lex was vaguely aware that the floor underneath him was cold and sticky. He tried to imagine what he might have done that would've led to him being in this position. The last thing he remembered was hearing a note of fear in Bruce's voice, Bruce's hands on his arms, and then nothing. And where was Clark? Bruce's hands on his body should have been enough for Clark to practically super-speed across the room. Clark tended to be a little over-protective when it came to Lex's former lovers, even the ones who hadn't tried to kill him. Maybe especially those.

Lex stilled his thoughts and listened. He could hear people moving around the room, low voices talking, but he still wasn't focussing well enough to catch the words. He would just lie here and wait until he knew what was going on. No doubt the spandex brigade had found some kind of trouble and were going to have to rely on his quick-thinking to get them out of it. It was always like that, Lex mused. God, what would they do without him?

He felt someone move nearby, tipping him onto his side. He let himself be rolled. Felt a hand on his ass. Hey! Groping for his wallet. Oh. Where the hell were Clark and Bruce? He thought at least one of them would be objecting to any ass-groping that was going on. Hm. There was something that sounded like it might be a Kryptonian being shoved back against a wall by a bat-loving billionaire before he could do something stupid. _Those are my boys_ , Lex thought proudly.

He felt a tug at his wrist as he was rolled onto his back. He was almost fully awake now. Rough, unmanicured hands struggled with the clasp on his watch. The watch with a Napoleon franc for a face. The watch his mother had given him. No. Lex opened his eyes at the same time as he flung a fist in the general direction of the person who was stealing his watch. He felt the satisfying thud of flesh against bone. Heard a loud gasp.

"My mother gave me that watch. Hands off." Lex sat up, shaking his fist lightly and readjusting his watch. He looked over to see Clark beaming, Bruce rolling his eyes, Dick grinning, and Harry glancing nervously at the window. He didn't seem to have noticed Lex's sudden re-animation.

"Hey, guys," Lex said smoothly, ignoring the gun that was trained on him as he got to his feet. He brushed himself off casually. "Hell of a party."

***

Harry was vaguely aware that Lex had apparently recovered. He was also aware that there was something very odd about his classmates and their partners, otherwise they would've also been unconscious on the floor. But at the moment, he was more concerned about the flicker of movement he could see through the window in his peripheral vision. A familiar, red-suited web-crawler was hanging upside-down outside the window taking in the situation. When he noticed Harry noticing him, he shook his head slightly. No matter what issues they might have, there were innocent lives at stake here. A lot of them. Harry didn't like being reminded of that fact by someone who hid behind a mask. He glared at the window then turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

***

Malcolm Cain was not a happy man. This job should've been a piece of cake. Arrange the catering services for the alumni fund-raiser of one of the most pretentious prep schools in the world, drug the champagne, and make off with the money and jewellery while everyone was sleeping. Easy.

Instead, he now had four witnesses–no, make that five since Cue Ball returned to the game with a convincing fist to Rempel's jaw-–and absolutely no idea what he was going to do with them. He wasn't a man who liked killing, although he'd done it in the past, but only when there'd been a principle involved, a good reason. As much as he loved the idea of taking from the rich, it didn't seem like enough of a motive for murder. At least not if it were his hands that were getting dirty.

If he were dealing with less powerful men, he could use bribery, but what could he offer these people? They had everything. Their lives were about the only thing he could give them, but that wouldn't prevent them from siccing the police on him or even private hitmen when this was all said and done, and the score from this night wasn't going to be enough to let him leave the country and retire to a beach somewhere. The thought was far from settling. He reviewed the wallets of the five men in front of him and fought to connect the names to their places in society. He didn't have to struggle that hard.

The tall, dark quiet one was Bruce Wayne. Of Wayne Enterprises. Well, shit. Dick Grayson was the kid, but he seemed to be attached to Wayne in some way. They had the same address. A nephew, perhaps? Cain tried to remember what he knew about the reclusive Wayne. It wasn't much. Quite the opposite to ... Lex Luthor. Now Cain realized why Cue Ball was so familiar. The man had been making banner headlines from New York to Metropolis since he was a teen. Clark Kent was the reporter, and apparently living with Luthor, at least according to their drivers' licenses. Well, whatever turned your crank, he thought. But, fuck, Luthors weren't exactly known for being forgiving. Rumour had it that Lex had bankrupted a former girlfriend and her father after he found out she was sleeping with his father. But who could believe everything that was written in _The Inquisitor_? The nervous one, who was still drinking the damn champagne–-and didn't that beat all?-–was Harry Osborn, another billionaire with another internationally known corporation. And apparently they had all done enough drugs that what should have easily put down a bull elephant didn't seem to be phasing any of them.

Then Cain had a brilliant idea. Yes. These were important, powerful men. The kind of men who ran empires. The kind of men who had people who would pay for their safe return. Yes, it might work, and the score would be a hundred times bigger than a few sets of cultured pearls and some pocket money, even if the pocket change tended to run in the range of hundred dollar bills.

"Everyone listen up. Change in plan. I've got to call the man in charge. If any of them moves–and I mean it–shoot them. Just enough to hurt, not enough to kill. We need to keep them alive."

Cain watched as five pairs of eyes turned towards him menacingly.

"At least for now." He turned and walked out of the room, reaching for his cell phone as he went.

***

"What do you suppose that means?" Lex asked quietly, leaning slowly back against Clark's warm side. The gunmen looked even more twitchy with Cain gone, and Lex didn't really want to end up on the floor again. His head still felt uncomfortably sticky, and he wondered if he'd been lying in champagne. God, he wanted nothing more than to take Clark home and wrap himself around his body. After he'd had a shower. He hated being sticky. Especially if there was nothing as pleasant as sex beforehand.

"I think it means Cain's figured out we're worth substantially more than the stuff they've lifted," Bruce returned. "We messed up his plan, but he's not typically a killer. He needs direction from whoever's calling the shots. We gave him time to regroup, and so things just got a lot more complicated. There's someone a lot bigger than him involved in this."

"Moonlighting as an FBI profiler now, Bruce?" Lex said with amusement.

"Will you guys be quiet?" Harry whispered urgently, causing the others to look at him in surprise. He hadn't said much of anything since this ordeal started. He darted his eyes towards the window one last time, then said softly in a voice that demanded obedience: "Get down," as he flung himself to the floor.

The window beside them shattered in a blur of red and blue.

***

Lex felt himself hurled to the floor–a very sticky floor–with a large and heavy Clark wrapped around him as glass and bullets rained down. Lex realized that Clark had managed to grab Harry by the neck and pull him in close, so that Clark was effectively shielding them both. Lex thought he could see the top of Dick's tousled head peeking out from behind where Bruce had crushed his ward against the wall, shielding Dick with his body. Lex knew he'd be grateful later that Clark and Bruce were such over-protective geeks, but right now he thought breathing might be nice. He poked Clark in the side.

"I need to breathe," Lex whispered, knowing Clark's hearing would catch it, and felt Clark shift slightly. Lex tried to turn his head so he could get a better view of what was going on. He wiggled until he had managed to peer over Clark's shoulder, trying not to kick Harry as he moved.

"Lex," Clark warned between clenched teeth.

"I just want to see what's happening."

"Well?"

"Oh, it's one of yours. Red suit, leaping around the walls and spraying webs. Cool! It's Spider-man!"

Bruce and Clark looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"Great. Just what this party needs-–another super-hero," Clark whispered. "Think we can make it out of here while they're busy with him?"

"Too big a risk," Bruce said. "Besides, there's a room full of innocent people here." Lex noticed that Bruce was ignoring his snicker at the word innocent. "As it is, there's a good chance that somebody's going to get shot with him bouncing all over the place and them firing indiscriminately." Bruce clearly didn't think much of this rescue so far.

"Then we'd better do something, now," Lex said, pushing hard at Clark's chest. "Get off. There are five of us here who can take care of ourselves without revealing anybody's secrets if we're careful." Lex chose to ignore the strange look Harry was shooting his way. "The least we can do is help Spidey out."

Clark reluctantly rolled away and Bruce let go of Dick. The five of them got to their feet and leapt into the fray.

***

If he'd been able to use his super-speed, things would've been a lot easier, Clark thought, but that power was just a dead giveaway. So he was reduced to bashing heads together like a common thug. He hated this kind of fighting. It lacked finesse. It was effective, but it just wasn't all that satisfying. Plus, he felt like he had to keep an eye on how everyone else was faring, since apparently he'd been the only one in line when they were handing out invulnerability. Clark sighed as he felt a chair crash down on his head. He shook away the debris and turned to wag a finger at the perpetrator. He really wanted to be somewhere else. Preferably back at the hotel with Lex.

Lex, on the other hand, seemed to be rising to the occasion. He was twirling and spinning and yelling things in Chinese that Clark thought–with his rudimentary understanding of Mandarin–sounded more like "There's a cricket in my noodles" than anything tremendously insulting. Clark decided it was time to limit Lex's Kung-Fu movie rentals. Still, what Lex lacked in strength, he more than made up for in style. Clark smiled in appreciation as Lex sent two men tumbling backwards with a well-placed roundhouse kick. Lex was really something.

Bruce was appalled. He was wearing a tuxedo and engaged in what was essentially a street fight in one of the oldest and classiest buildings in New York. Bruce's right arm gracefully extended sideways and dropped a charging opponent. On top of that, he had to listen to Lex shouting nonsense in Mandarin–and who exactly did he think he was going to intimidate by pointing out that the train to Beijing was leaving at 3:00? Bruce frowned as he watched Lex execute another typically Lexian variation on a traditional Aikido movement that resulted in both Lex and his opponent crashing through a nearby table.

Bruce turned effortlessly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, letting the smooth motion of his arms carry him around to deliver a satisfying thrust into the sternum of his attacker. The man sank like a stone. Bruce was going to have to talk with Lex about his moves–he hadn't realized Lex had become so sloppy. He turned his head in time to see Clark drop-kicking someone into the wall; hm, perhaps he'd better sit them both down and remind them about the legacy of grace and dignity inherent in the martial arts. He returned to a ready position.

Dick laughed as he tumbled out of the way of a swinging fist. He'd missed this. The closer he and Bruce had gotten, the less inclined Bruce was to take him into dangerous situations. He kept talking about training and timing and not rushing things. He shot a glance over at Lex. He seemed to be holding his own, and Clark wasn't watching his every move. Of course, Lex's moves were so huge that you could see them coming a mile off, but still, it was obvious that Clark trusted Lex to take care of himself. That's what friends did. That's what boyfriends did.

And sometimes you just had to jump in and fight, Dick thought. This was a hell of a lot better than hanging back and waiting for the bad guys to fall into a trap. Or getting left behind and figuring out later that the "simple plan" meant Bruce staggering bruised and bloody through the door at two in the morning. Dick did a backflip and neatly avoided the kick that had been aimed at his head. This made him feel like he was flying from the high trapeze again, and something in his blood started to sing. This was what living was all about.

Harry was fighting his way across the room, intent on one thing. Spider-man. The web-crawler was plastered to the ceiling, breathing hard, and taking in the mayhem below him. Harry barely registered the fact that apparently his classmates were all martial arts experts, although he wasn't sure why Lex was asking his opponent if he knew where he could rent a rickshaw. Perhaps Harry's Mandarin was a little rusty. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard faint laughter, egging him on toward the man who had killed his father. He was going to find out Spider-man's identity and he was going to kill him-–not necessarily in that order-–if they were the last things he did.

***

Peter looked down in amazement as Harry and the other four men that had been sheltered against the wall entered the fight. Weapons were discarded in favour of hand-to-hand combat and Peter had a moment to catch his breath and observe. Peter smiled. Honour among gun-toting thieves was so rare these days. It was a nice change to be working with professionals.

He knew who the five men were. Working in the newspaper business meant he'd seen their pictures before. Many times. But Peter would've never guessed that two billionaires, a newspaper reporter, and a kid barely out of high school would be kicking ass and taking names like this. Even Harry was more than holding his own, although truthfully, he looked like he was a man on a mission and Peter had a pretty good idea what that mission was. He'd seen the hatred in Harry's eyes. He tried to push the guilt away. It wouldn't do him any good here.

The two tall guys, Bruce and Clark, seemed to be well-trained and very strong. Peter watched in wonderment as he saw Clark take a chair to the head, and shake it off as if it were nothing. He'd just seen him pick up a guy who must have weighed three hundred pounds and toss him against the wall. It looked like the marble had cracked when the guy hit, but Clark didn't seem to have even broken a sweat. Shit. What kind of program were these guys on? Bruce was all about silence and absolute efficiency of movement. He looked like he fought in a tuxedo every day. It was kind of like watching James Bond, but without the cheesy one-liners or the special effects. He gave the impression of moving through a series of forms–-tai chi or aikido or some other ancient martial art–-and almost coincidentally, people fell down around him when he executed the moves. As if they were just part of the performance. Peter took a deep breath. Bruce was a little intimidating to watch.

Lex Luthor on the other hand was like watching late night television, although Peter suspected that Luthor would have him killed for saying so. Lex was all performance, showy moves and whooping yells in foreign languages that sounded really threatening when Lex said them. Peter was sure that whatever he was saying in that smooth don't-fuck-with-me-I-have-the-power-to-make-your-life-a-living-Hell voice was intimidating everyone in the room. He certainly would've stayed out of Luthor's way. Lex's style, such as it was, was occasionally messy, but Peter figured that Lex had the element of surprise on his side; he didn't look like he should be able to take care of himself, but he was doing just fine, although occasionally, no one looked more surprised than he did when he connected with an opponent. The big smile on his face said more than anything else.

The kid was another surprise. Dark and lithe, he had more bounce than a Mexican jumping bean. Peter watched him backflip, somersault over an opponent, and practically fly through the air. That didn't seem entirely normal, but then again, he was a human spider, so who was he to judge?

Peter took a deep breath, adjusted his costume, and starting shooting webs to hold the attackers that had been incapacitated. He worked at moving the innocents out of the way and shielding them behind webs. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Harry's murderous glare edge closer and closer.

***

Malcolm Cain heard the first shots fired, even though he was three floors above.

"Shit! We just lost the upper hand."

"Nonsense," the cool voice on the phone replied. "The shift in balance is momentary. My team is on its way to deal with the situation. You will retrieve your people and meet me at the rendezvous point as previously arranged. You will bring everything you have extricated from the Excelsior alumni, and I mean everything, Cain."

Cain flushed red, but didn't say anything. He was a professional, not a petty thief.

"My team will take care of the six who are there now."

 _Six_ , Cain thought. There had been five when he came upstairs. That was an interesting development. The man on the phone rarely made mistakes, let things slip. Or perhaps he wanted him to know. The game was complicated. The rules kept changing. He filed the information away for later and continued listening.

"They know what to do. You and your people will be richly rewarded for bringing these men to my attention, but they are no longer your concern."

Cain nodded into the phone. _Six_ , he thought to himself.

"Forget you have seen them." The voice was slightly hypnotic, almost mesmerizing.

"Forget they were here."

Cain concentrated on the word six. Six men. _Six_. He felt as if he'd been staring into a flame for too long.

"Forget everything about them."

He turned the flame into the number six, let it burn into his mind. It was the only way to escape Thrall's power to make you forget. _Six_.

"Go now. You've done well, but do not attempt to contact me again. Do you understand?"

"Of course, sir. I understand."

 _Six._

Cain hung up the phone and waited until he was sure it was safe to go downstairs.

***

Clark wasn't sure at what point the situation went to hell, but he figured it was about the same time the ceiling disappeared. One moment they'd been holding their own, the next the ceiling was disappearing in a cloud of plaster, black leather, and silver rappel wires. Clark felt something tighten around his neck, and reached up to shake it off. He felt a familiar feeling of nausea as he looked at his hands turning green and veiny. He fell to his knees, hands scrabbling at the collar that was threatening to choke him.

"Lex," he managed to call weakly, but Lex was already moving steadily towards him.

He heard Bruce cry out sharply, and turned his head in time to see Bruce sink to his knees, pulling some sort of dart out of his chest. The next moment, five black-suited commandos were swarming over him, securing his hands and feet. Clark could see Dick being similarly man-handled, thrown over the shoulder of a tall figure in leather, hands and feet locked in some sort of device that allowed for very little movement. Dick was yelling for Bruce, but Bruce's eyes had already closed.

Then Lex was kneeling in front of him, warm hands brushing his face as he fumbled with the collar.

"I suggest you leave that be, Mr. Luthor, if you don't want to see what a Kryptonite-bomb can do to your lover's head," a voice said from the doorway, and Lex froze.

"You're bluffing," Lex said, turning to face a man dressed all in black. Unlike the rest of the commandos that had dropped through holes blasted in the ceiling, this man's face was visible. A heavy scar cut his face in half from right brow to the left edge of his chin, and his nose looked like it had been broken and failed to set properly on more than one occasion. A shock of red hair had slipped from beneath his helmet, and a moustache of the same colour ended in two long curls. He stood head and shoulders taller than Lex, looking vaguely like some Prussian general that Clark had seen in one of Lex's history books. If Clark hadn't felt like he was going to throw up, he probably would've said so to Lex. He'd never admit it, of course, but he loved when Lex went into historical lecture mode. Smart Lex was incredibly sexy.

"Try me," the man said. "I promise you, it will be your loss."

"What do you want, Slash?" Lex said, switching back into negotiation mode. Clark knew he was trying to buy some time, although he wasn't sure that insulting the man was the way to get it. Lex had always been a little short on tact outside the boardroom. Even in it.

Clark saw Harry and Spider-man being carried out by more of the black-suited commandos; both of them appeared to be unconscious. Clark spared a moment to look over the room. It was a disaster area. Spider-man had done his best to pull many of the unconscious party-goers out of the line of fire, depositing them in neat webs around the edges of the room, but Clark could see places where feet seemed to be poking out from under huge slabs of ceiling, and he thought that at least some of the red stains on the floor looked a lot more like blood than wine. He hoped he was wrong. He felt like they'd really screwed up this time.

"A room full of super-heroes? What's not to want?" The man moved closer, stepping over debris as he walked through the room. Clark could feel the effects of the Kryptonite stabilizing. There seemed to be enough in the collar to keep him extremely weak, but not enough to make him pass out. Someone appeared to know a great deal about his limits. He didn't like the idea, and he really didn't like that Lex was standing between him and this man, trying to talk his way out of the mess they were in.

"You must be mistaken," Lex said with a hint of menace in his voice. Clark looked up, could see Lex's frame straighten as he spoke, his back rigid. This man, whoever he was, and his commandoes had just effectively cowed three of the strongest men in the city and here was Lex standing there glaring up at him, threatening him, with nothing and no one to back him up. Clark wanted to drag him away from there before something happened. He didn't know how anyone could ever doubt Lex's bravery, although his sanity was another matter entirely.

"Lex," Clark said. Lex looked down, gave him an encouraging smile, then went right back to what he was doing. Clark knew that look. It was his over-my-dead-body look, and Clark lived in fear of somebody actually taking him up on that.

"Lex, please," he tried again.

Scarface was speaking: "Superman, Spider-man, Batman and Robin, and the Green Goblin, or at least his son, so it's almost the same thing seeing how these things usually work. Fathers and sons. And then there's you, Mr. Luthor. Odd man out."

Lex laughed. Clark closed his eyes. He felt sick. Scarface had just outed all of them and Lex was standing there laughing in his face.

"You're insane, Slash," Lex said calmly. "Three billionaires, a reporter, a kid, and Spider-man, I'll give you. If you think you've got more than that, you're dreaming." Clark wanted to kiss him. Now. Kiss him hard. Kiss him like they had forever. Because they both knew this wasn't going to work.

"And that's why your boyfriend is the same colour as the Kryptonite around his neck?"

Clark saw Lex start to turn his head before he realized he was being baited. The shift was tiny, but it was enough. Not that there had been any doubt, but still, Lex was off his game because he was worried. That much was clear.

"What do you want?" Lex said again, and this time there was no disguising the anger in his voice.

"I have what I want, Mr. Luthor. I have all of you. You're not asking the right questions. Your father would be disappointed."

Clark closed his eyes. Oh, that was very dangerous. Any mention of Lionel in a situation like this was sure to send Lex careening over the edge at breakneck speeds. Clark wasn't disappointed. Scarface was pushing all the right buttons.

"Is my father involved in this? How do you know him?"

"Ruled by your emotions, indeed. I see what he means." Clark reached out a weak hand, but Lex was actually stepping closer to Scarface, too far away for Clark to touch. He needed to get Lex away from here. He needed for Lex to be okay and there was no way that this conversation was going to end with Lex anywhere in the vicinity of okay. In fact, he suspected that okay had already left the building and put a sign on the door saying "gone fishing."

"Fuck you! What's the right question, then? You already have us, so I guess the logical question is to ask what you plan to do with us. Am I close?"

"Very good."

"So, answer the goddamn question then. What do you plan to do with us?" Lex was scared and angry and shaking. He was standing practically nose to nose with the scar-faced man–a considerable feat given the height difference–yelling in his face. The man leaned in closely and put a gloved hand on Lex's right shoulder. Scarface was touching Lex. His Lex, and Lex was angry enough not to care. God. This was not going to be okay by any definition. Okay had not just left the building, but had pulled up stakes and moved to Canada. He wanted to scream at Lex to run.

"I've always been particularly fascinated with your ability to heal, Mr. Luthor. I think it's time to test it out."

Clark heard the words, saw the man's right arm move beneath his coat, heard the dull thud of a gun being fired at point blank range. Clark cried out, but it was too late. He could see the bullet moving through Lex's side and bursting through his back. Clark felt blood spattering his face. Then Lex was falling backwards, into his arms, and the look on his face was pure shock. He hadn't seen it coming. Lex, who planned his chess games twelve moves in advance, was completely taken by surprise.

Clark caught Lex roughly in his arms, not used to Lex feeling heavy. He knew it was the Kryptonite. It changed everything. It robbed him of everything that felt normal. Lex bleeding in his arms was definitely not normal.

"I'm sorry, Clark," Lex whispered, and his eyes were already closing. Clark felt a sob shake him as he bent to kiss Lex's lips. He felt a pinch at his neck, and then he too was lost to darkness.

***

"Clark? Clark! Can you hear me?" a voice was practically shouting in his ear. God, no one was respectful of super-hearing, Clark thought. He nodded, hoping that was sufficient to make the yelling stop until he could at least get his eyes to open and his brain to catch-up.

It must've worked because the voice backed off. Clark felt sick. He was having trouble getting his bearings, and his neck was unbelievably heavy. He struggled to sit.

"Help him sit up, Dick." Bruce's voice, steady and cold. No, not Bruce. Batman.

Clark remembered what had happened before the darkness. Remembered the world turning the colour of blood. Remembered his life being ripped from his arms. He made a mournful noise in the back of his throat and shook off the warm hands that were touching him.

Superman opened his eyes.

***

Bruce saw the change the moment it happened. Saw Superman push Dick away a little more forcefully than he had to and struggle to right himself, by himself. Green eyes flashed coldly in a face that seemed to have grown suddenly more angular than soft, more imposing and commanding than the boy that had lain there unconscious and shivering a moment before.

Lex had been right. There were times when Clark did look as if he were still sixteen. But now wasn't one of them.

It was the eyes that bothered him the most, Bruce thought. Superman's suit had always transformed Clark's eyes into blue–a reflection of the material the suit was made from and part of the disguise. Bruce wasn't used to Superman staring back at him with Clark's eyes. He thought maybe he finally understood the strange dichotomy that Lex lived with every day. The green eyes seemed wrong, out of place, in the face of the alien. They were Clark's eyes. Eyes that were supposed to be filled with love and laughter. The eyes Lex had told him about after he first met Clark. Bruce remembered Lex babbling about his Porsche and a bridge and destiny. Bruce hadn't been able to make a lot of sense out of it at the time, but Lex had kept coming back to some kid named Clark and a pair of stunning green eyes. Eyes that had haunted Lex's dreams for months after that. Bruce wondered briefly if Lex had ever told Clark that. Wondered if he would get the chance.

The five of them had been here for an hour or more, but no Lex. And Clark had been unconscious, muttering incoherently, when two men had dragged him in and dropped him in the corner. Bruce had noticed the eerie green glow from the collar, the blood spattered across Clark's face, the huge stain that had coloured the front of his tuxedo a dirty red. Dick had scrambled over to check if Clark was wounded; they knew he could bleed when Kryptonite was involved, but Dick had looked back at Bruce with sad eyes and a shake of his head. So. It wasn't Clark's blood.

Lex.

"Clark, where did they take Lex?" Bruce asked, his voice the detached bass rumble of Batman.

Bruce could see Clark struggling to keep his features blank, struggling to keep Superman in command. Superman could deal with anything, even when Clark was terrified and screaming inside. Bruce understood that too.

He rephrased the question: "Superman, what happened to Lex?"

Superman pulled himself together. Bruce would get the facts, and little else. They'd deal with the rest later. Bruce saw him scan the room once for listening devices before he began to speak. "I was weakened by the Kryptonite collar. Luthor was trying to get it off when their commander arrived. He had a scar across his face."

Bruce nodded. Scarface had come in to look them over once since they'd been locked in here. Bruce tried to ignore the fact that Clark was talking about Lex as Luthor. He'd only heard him do that when Lex had really pissed him off, and usually only when Lex was around to get the full effect of being reduced to his last name, something Lex hated more than anything.

If Clark needed to distance himself this much from whatever had happened ... Bruce didn't want to consider the possibilities. Lex had been a part of his life for so long that he couldn't imagine him not being there. He longed to wrap the dark cape around his shoulders, pull the cowl over his face. It was easier to blot out everything with the right props.

"He told Luthor the collar would explode if removed. There didn't seem to be a lot of options. Luthor attempted to find out what he wanted with all of us. Scarface knows everything. All of our identities, our weaknesses."

"Fuck, Clark, you know Lex hates it when you call him Luthor. What the hell's the matter with you? Just tell us what happened," Dick said angrily, putting a hand awkwardly on Clark's shoulder. His hands were still in restraints, but he wasn't going to be pushed around by Superman anymore. There were times that he hated when Bruce did the Batman thing–how he put on another personality when he donned the mask–and with Clark it was even worse. He'd never understood the need for it, and right now he needed the guys who were his friends, not the ones that treated life and death as though they were simply two sides of a coin. He needed the Clark who liked to shoot hoops with him and the Bruce that liked to make up Scrabble words, just to see if he was paying attention.

"Please, Clark. Come back and tell us what happened. We'll help," Dick said plaintively, reaching out awkwardly to touch Clark's leg.

Something inside Clark broke, and a strangled sound, half-way between a sob and a laugh burst from Clark's mouth. Words rushed out in a torrent. "Lex tried to tell him he was wrong. Called him 'Slash.' Lex laughed at him, as only Lex could. We knew it was a lost cause, and he just kept trying to protect me, trying to deny what the guy could already see. Why the hell I ever thought that worked, I don't know. And then Scarface mentioned Lionel, and Lex just lost it. He was so angry that maybe Lionel was involved somehow. The guy kept pushing and Lex kept pushing back, and then ..."

"What happened?" Bruce saw tears forming at the edges of Clark's eyes. He didn't think he was even aware of them. _God, Lex_ , Bruce thought. His eyes went back to the dried blood all over Clark. What the hell happened?

"Scarface said he'd always been fascinated with Lex's ability to heal. Then he shot him. Point blank. I saw the bullet go through his side and out the back. It went right by my head." Clark rubbed awkwardly at his face, and Bruce noticed that the tears were mingling with the dried blood–Lex's blood–that dotted Clark's face. "He fell right into my arms and then they took him away. He said he was sorry. I don't even know if he's still alive. There was a lot of blood." Clark passed his hands over his eyes again, using the tears to rub the blood off his face, as if he could erase the memory of what had happened. As if it would make Lex whole and alive and safe.

"Jesus, Clark," Dick said, and leaned his head forward against Clark's shoulder. "I'd put my arms around you, but I can't. These restraints really suck." Bruce closed his eyes and smiled inside, and all the love he'd ever felt for Dick was right there in front of him wrapping itself around Clark. Because Clark needed it. Two kids comforting each other in the darkness. I'd hold you if I could. I'd save you if I could.

 _Do you remember when we were sixteen? I remember._

 _We're still alive. That was the deal._

And Bruce shivered inside because he'd known Lex forever, before Batman, before the suit. And if he really thought about it, Lex had saved his life as much as he'd saved Lex's. He may have physically saved Lex from being beaten to a pulp when his mouth got ahead of him, but Lex had saved his soul. He'd crawled into his personal space and held him when he wanted to hate the world. He was the only person who'd ever punched him in the face, then kissed his bleeding lips. He'd taught him how to hold someone and not break him, how to love and not just fuck (although he'd taught him a lot about that too), how to live with the darkness without living in it all the time. And considering Lex's role model, Bruce deemed it some kind of miracle that Lex had always known instinctively what love felt like. What it looked like. There would never be anyone else like Lex, no matter who else came and went in his life, in his bed.

And God help them all, if Lex was dead. Clark may have sworn to protect and serve humanity, but Bruce had made no such promises. If Lex was dead, God help the world.

That was the deal.

***

Peter sat with his back against the wall, chains securing his arms and legs. He'd listened intently to everything that was being said, and with his mask still in place he knew that the others couldn't be sure whether he was conscious or not. Shit! Clark Kent was Superman. That was something. And damned if the guy wasn't hopelessly in love with Lex Luthor. Peter had never heard such anguish before listening to Clark tell what had happened. And now maybe Lex was dead, which Peter really hoped he wasn't. Apparently Lex was one of the good guys after all; just like Harry had tried to tell him.

"Excuse me? Hey, Spider-man."

Peter realized someone was speaking to him. It was Bruce Wayne. Great. The guy was as intimidating as an exhibition of Dadaist art. Peter turned his head to indicate that he was listening.

"It looks like we're all in this together, and the reality is that the bad guys know a hell of a lot more about us than we know about each other. Normally I wouldn't suggest this, but I think introductions are in order. We need to know our strengths and weaknesses if we have any hope of getting control of this situation."

Peter nodded. It made sense, even though it meant that Harry would find out the truth now. It wasn't the best circumstance and it wasn't how he'd planned on telling him, but at least it probably ensured that Harry wouldn't kill him with so many witnesses present. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Okay, if we're all in agreement, I'll start. I'm Bruce Wayne. I'm also known as Batman." Peter sucked in a breath. He noticed that Harry had done a double-take as well. Good. He was glad that he wasn't the only one who hadn't made the connections. "I have specialized training in the martial arts and I rely heavily on technology, so without my equipment I'm limited in what I can do."

"Bruce, I've seen you incapacitate someone with a tuning fork. Give it a rest," Clark said. "You're fucking Batman. You rule the night. Skip the false modesty. Lex would bust your chops for that, so I'll have to do it til he gets back."

Peter marvelled at the way Clark–Superman–seemed to be putting himself back together so quickly.

"Lex would never say 'bust your chops,' Clark, although he's quite capable of performing the requisite action," Bruce replied. Peter watched Bruce and Clark exchange a genuine smile.

Lex Luthor must be some guy to command that kind of loyalty from two super-heroes. Peter was beginning to think that maybe Bruce was a little bit in love with the guy too. He didn't know if he had even a fraction of the strength of character that these men did. Half the time, he wanted to ball the suit up in a garbage can and walk away from it all.

"I'm Clark Kent. Superman. And don't get me started on the name. That's Lois Lane's fault. I'm an alien from the planet Krypton, but I was raised in Kansas so I feel pretty human most of the time, except I'm mostly invulnerable." Peter was leaning forward with interest. He'd heard reports and rumours, but he didn't really know how much of the legend was true. "I'm strong, fast, I can fly, I have super-hearing, can freeze things with my breath, and burn things with my eyes. I have x-ray vision, which is actually just as cool as it sounds, and bullets bounce off me. Well, most things do, including subtle attempts at humour. Did I mention I can fly?"

Clark leaned back against the wall. He looked tired and now that Peter really looked, his skin seemed faintly green.

"My only weakness–besides Lex–"

Peter was amazed that the man was able to grin.

"–is Kryptonite, a substance found in meteor rocks. The green stuff makes me weak. Enough of it, or a refined quantity, makes me really ill or could even kill me. Red Kryptonite just makes my inhibitions take a walk, which is fine if you want to have kinky sex, but not so good if you actually want to like me while we're doing it. There are a bunch of other colours too, but we probably don't have to worry about them. They're pretty rare."

"And if you haven't figured it out, this fucking collar has just enough green stuff in it to keep me weak and nauseated, but not enough to make me pass out. Someone knew exactly what he was doing. I also can't see through lead which is both good and bad. It's good because it protects me from the effects of Kryptonite, but I can't see through it, which is why, I'm assuming, the walls of this fucking room are lined with lead. Next?"

"I'm Dick Grayson. I'm Robin to Bruce's Batman." Peter smiled. That made a lot of sense now. "Technically, I used to be Bruce's ward, but we're a lot more than that. Partners," Dick said proudly, with a look at Bruce that said he wanted that in every sense of the word.

Peter detected a note of proprietary smugness in the young man's voice and thought he saw Bruce shift uncomfortably. Private men didn't like their private lives being put on public display. It made them weak. Vulnerable. So Robin was Batman's Achilles' heel, just as Lex was Clark's. It made sense. It's why the bad guys were always trying to get at the people you cared about. He understood something about that.

"I don't really have any special powers, although I benefit from Bruce being a gadget freak. He's given me a lot of training in the martial arts, but I was a trapeze artist before that, so I'm, uh, pretty limber." Dick flushed pink as he realized how that sounded. Bruce looked at him affectionately. Peter couldn't believe that these men could spend any time in public together without having all their secrets spilled. Jesus, they were horrible at hiding their feelings. At least he had the sense to put on a full face mask.

"Bruce, this seems like a really fucked-up meeting of Super-heroes Anonymous," Clark said mildly. He looked like he was in pain. There seemed to be a thin sheen of sweat on his face. Peter was getting that invulnerable aliens from the planet Krypton typically didn't sweat.

"We love you, Clark," Bruce and Dick chimed in together and Peter found himself laughing along with the rest of them. They were being held prisoner God knows where, while Superman's lover had been shot and was possibly dead, and here they were laughing together and trading secrets. Being a super-hero was really a fucked-up occupation.

"And Clark, can you watch your language? Your profanity level goes through the roof when you're stressed. That's Lex's influence. I know the green stuff's not helping, but I don't want anyone picking up bad habits."

Even Peter knew who that was aimed at. The protectiveness was sweet; there was no other word for it. He'd never thought of Batman as having a softer side. A soft furry underbelly, so to speak. He was thankful the mask hid his grin.

"Harry? You want to go next?" Bruce said. Peter steeled himself. He knew what was coming.

"Um, well, I don't think I really fit in this club very well, but I'm Harry Osborn. My father was Norman Osborn. He was The Green Goblin." Harry looked to see if there was any reaction from the other men. Peter saw no sign of judgment there. "He was killed by Spider-man, so this is a little awkward because I've sworn to avenge my father's death."

Peter kept his face averted from Harry. He knew the kind of look Harry was sending his way. He didn't need to see it in his friend's eyes. He could see Bruce and Clark exchanging glances, but Peter couldn't tell what the looks meant.

"I've considered taking over my father's role as The Goblin to keep Spider-man in line. Somebody needs to. He's a menace."

"Harry, I know this is tough, but let's just do the basics right now. Any special abilities?"

"Um, well, I took the same chemical formula that my father did and I've noticed that I'm stronger than I used to be. I seem to have a greater tolerance for a lot of things."

"Like alcohol?" Dick ventured.

"No, I always had that. Pain mostly." Peter didn't want to know how Harry knew that.

"But sometimes it feels like I'm almost two people, and I get urges to do things. Bad things." Peter shifted his eyes to look at Harry. Harry's eyes were down and he looked as if he might be shaking. Even with everything, he was still Peter's best friend, and Peter wanted to go over there and comfort him. He felt sick that he'd driven Harry to become his father. He didn't know if he could ever forgive himself for that.

"That's usually part of walking on the dark side of things, Harry," Bruce said gently. The man seemed well-acquainted with the concept. "You can control it, though. You don't have to let it control you. Just remember that. And now that we know, we can help you too. We try not to judge. We all come to things in our own way."

"Yeah, we even have a slogan. 'One person's villain is another person's hero.' It used to say 'man', but Wonder Woman made us change it," Clark said. "We even have bumper stickers. We can get you a mug. Dishwasher safe."

Peter smiled under his mask, could see that Harry was smiling too. It had been a long time since he'd seen Harry smile. He missed it.

Clark cleared his throat and Peter could see his look shift to something more serious. "The rest of us all know Lex pretty well, but Spider-man doesn't, so maybe someone can say something."

Bruce looked at Clark sympathetically, and nodded. "Lex Luthor is a prominent businessman from Metropolis. He's not a super-hero in the conventional sense–"

"He wouldn't be caught dead in spandex," Clark interjected, stumbling when he hit the word 'dead.' He looked away miserably.

"–but most of us tend to think he's one of the bravest men we've ever met."

Peter could see that Clark and Dick were nodding. Harry looked interested. So, this was new for him too, even though he'd gone to school with both Bruce and Lex. Obviously, he hadn't been privvy to their deeper secrets.

"He lost his hair to Smallville's meteor shower–the one that brought Superman to us–and it left Lex with the ability to heal rapidly, so we're counting on that to get him through this, wherever they've taken him."

Bruce looked almost nostalgic as he continued. "I've known Lex for a long time. Since we were kids. And Clark was a teenager when they met. I guess Lex is a weak spot for both of us." Bruce's voice had grown softer, and Peter wondered what it had cost him to admit that.

"Lex's biggest asset is that people tend to underestimate him," Clark said. "They see a spoiled rich guy with a soft life, and that's not Lex."

Peter felt a stab of guilt. That was exactly what he'd thought when Harry had mentioned him earlier this evening. God, it seemed liked years since they'd had that conversation back at the apartment.

"Lex has worked hard to get where he is, and he's done it fighting his father and other people's expectations all the way. He's had to be smarter, faster, braver, and sometimes more devious, which takes a lot. He's brilliant and ambitious and a complete geek all at the same time. He can tell you 47 ways to knot a tie and can convert American dollars to yen in his head, but he can't fix a leaky faucet or sew on a button. He'll take care of himself and everyone around him, whether you want him to or not, but he'll never do exactly what you expect. He's got his own Lex way of doing everything."

"That's for sure," Bruce muttered. Clark shot him a small smile.

"Lex is a survivor, so I know he'll be alright." Peter sensed a small tremor in Clark's voice, as if he were trying to convince himself of exactly that. "But he has a bad habit of attracting trouble."

"It seems like he also attracts heroes," Peter said honestly, "so I'm guessing he'll be fine."

Clark looked across at him gratefully and his smile seemed to light up the small dark room. Peter wondered what that smile would look like when Clark's batteries hadn't been drained by Kryptonite. He suspected it was blinding.

"And that brings us to Spider-man," Bruce said. "We do appreciate what you tried to do for us back there." Peter nodded his acknowledgment. "We can respect your right to preserve your identity, but we've all had to trust you, so I hope you can trust us too. We take these things seriously." Peter saw everyone else nodding gravely. Even Harry was nodding.

Okay. This was it. The moment of truth. He was ready to reveal his identity. Everyone was looking at him expectantly.

"Um, the way they've tied my hands ... I can't reach up to take my mask off," Peter said apologetically. He felt like an idiot. "Someone else will have to do it."

Dick eased himself up off the floor and hobbled over to Peter. He was shackled hands and feet, but he still seemed to have the largest range of movement. Limber, indeed. He grasped the top of Peter's mask.

"Ready?" Dick said.

"Ready as ever," Peter replied and he felt the fabric slip away from his skin.


	2. Unmasked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns the truth, Lex is in trouble, and friends and family of the six start to notice they're missing.

Harry watched as Dick started to remove Spider-man’s mask. This was it. This was the moment. He’d fantasized about it, imagined himself with Spider-man helpless on the floor of his apartment or chained to the wall. The scenario changed depending on his mood. Sometimes Spider-man was naked except for the mask, and Harry wasn’t sure what that was about. He tried not to analyse it too much, or the fact that the fantasy body had taken on the shape of Peter a lot more frequently since he’d accidentally walked in on Peter changing one day. Considering the mess he was in, he was glad that Peter hadn’t come to the party.

Harry watched Dick struggle with the mask, tugging at it awkwardly. Harry imagined Spider-man cowering at his feet. He would walk around his helpless victim, letting him know who held all the power, letting him know what it felt like to be no more than an insignificant insect about to be squashed under someone else’s heel.

Spider-man would protest his innocence, beg him not to reveal his face, and his objections would fall on deaf ears. Harry would tell him that this was for his father, this was for what had been taken from him, and he would press the cold steel tip of a knife against the red suit.

His hand would reach behind the spider’s head, grab the fabric, and look into the fear-filled eyes of ...

“Peter?”

Harry gasped as Dick pulled the mask from Spider-man’s face. No, it couldn’t be. Not Peter. Harry blinked his eyes rapidly and looked again. He knew his mouth had fallen open, but this was impossible.

“Harry, I’m sorry.”

Dick was looking back and forth between the two of them with interest. “I take it you two know each other.”

“Peter Parker, I presume,” Clark ventured. Spider-man nodded.

Well, Harry thought, that explained why Peter always got such fucking good pictures of the web-crawler. Nothing like a little free publicity for yourself. He seemed to recall that Clark had written an article or two on Superman. Jeez, freedom of the press. What a bunch of bullshit.

Harry was still looking at Peter with a mixture of anger and shock. He was the last person that Harry had expected to see under the mask, although it kind of explained the nude fantasies in a weird way. Maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something. He’d figure out what later.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I wanted to tell you, and then, I just couldn’t. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Too late.”

“I think I’m missing something,” Bruce said quietly, looking at the two men.

***

“They’re best friends,” Clark said. He understood exactly how they were both feeling. Hurt, betrayed, angry, relieved in a weird way, and probably more than a little turned-on. Or maybe he was projecting his own experience. “Or they were.”

“Are,” Spider-man said firmly.

“Were,” Harry countered.

“Harry, please. You’ve been my best friend for years. We’re roommates.”

The other men were watching the argument move back and forth across the room like a particularly agile ping-pong ball.

“You killed my father, Pete. You killed my father!”

“It was an accident, Harry.”

“You came to the goddamn funeral. You hugged me and told me you were sorry.”

“I _am_ sorry. I never wanted that to happen, no matter what he was doing.”

“What _he_ was doing? Who’s the one dressing up like an insect and flying around New York?”

“Spiders aren’t insects, they’re arachnids, and I don’t fly. I swing. And it was your father who decided to join the costume party and disintegrate several people at a public venue!”

“Enough!” Clark’s voice cut through the air with more strength than he felt. It actually felt good to yell at someone. He sat up a little straighter and looked at Peter and Harry breathing hard and glaring at each other across the room.

“Whatever the truth is, the two of you will have to work it out. But now’s not the time. Right now you think you’re never going to recover from this, that your friendship will never be the same. You’re looking at a lifetime of playing dress-up and hurling insults and gadgets at one another. You don’t really want the other person dead, you just want them to hurt as much as they’ve hurt you.”

Clark was pleased to see both men flush and look away. Yeah, he knew this story a little too well. Maybe he could save them a lot of time and trouble. If they were still at the hotel, he probably would’ve suggested they just get a room.

“Believe it or not, Lex and I were there once. The only thing that can save you is being honest with each other. About everything. That means you’re both going to have to hear things you don’t want to hear. But if you really love your best friend--”

Peter and Harry both looked at him as if to say they didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. Clark almost laughed.

“--as much as I think you do, you’ll work it out. Believe me, it’s a lot better to be friends than enemies. And it’s a hell of a lot better to be lovers.”

Clark watched as both men turned bright red and opened their mouths as if to protest. Clark silenced them with a look.

“It doesn’t matter which way you swing--”

Peter glared at him.

“--it matters what you do about it. But right now, we need to be on the same team. Somebody knows us, all of us, remarkably well, and he wants something. If any of us are going to get out of here alive, we have to be able to trust each other, at least until we can escape. Personal vendettas and bruised egos and broken friendships are going to have to wait.”

Clark paused to make sure that what he said was sinking in. Harry and Peter both gave grudging nods and didn’t look at one another.

“Spider-man, tell us what you can do.”

***

Peter sighed. Well, that had gone just as badly as he’d thought it was going to. The saving grace, ironically, was Clark’s revelation that he and Lex had gone through something similar, and they seemed to have some kind of storybook romance. Maybe Harry would eventually be able to forgive him. Later. When this ordeal was over.

“I’m Peter Parker, a photographer for _The Daily Bugle_. And I’m Spider-man, obviously. My abilities come from being bitten by a super-spider, so I’m able to climb walls, shoot web from my wrists, and I’m strong and fast. I heal quickly, I’m very limber--”

Peter smiled at Dick, who returned the grin. Peter went on with his list when Bruce glared at him menacingly.

“--and, um, I sometimes get a feeling before something’s going to happen. I call it my spider-sense.”

“Cool!” Dick said. Bruce rolled his eyes. Peter wondered if bats ate spiders.

“Any weaknesses?” Bruce asked. He hoped he was imagining the hopeful note in Bruce’s voice.

“I’m still human, so I can be hurt. If I lose my focus, my powers tend to stop working. It’s freaky, but they seem to work better when I believe I can do something.”

Peter looked up to see Clark nodding. “The first few times I tried to fly, I either got stuck up there and couldn’t get down or I crashed as soon as I remembered where I was. Lex kept babbling about Dumbo and magic feathers. Eventually, I realized that if I didn’t believe it, it didn’t work. Leaping off a building takes a lot of faith.”

Peter nodded back. “And I guess my only other weakness is the people I care about.” He shot a sideways glance at Harry, who was studiously ignoring him. “Oh, and the fact that my boss likes banner headlines that paint me as a menace, but I’m learning to live with that.”

“Well,” Bruce began. “All in all, we’ve got a lot of strengths and relatively few weaknesses other than the people we care about. That’s not bad. Superman’s the strongest of all of us, but with the Kryptonite--”

Clark looked apologetic.

“--we’re going to have to play to more than physical strengths. They’ve managed to restrain each of us in a way that cuts off our abilities to use our assets, so escape at this juncture is likely not an option.”

“So, what do we do?” Harry asked. Peter was happy to see that he looked slightly less like he wanted to kill him, and more like he just wanted to get back to something resembling a normal life.

“We wait.”

***

Lex decided that he liked being dead. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. There were white lights all around him, his body felt warm and free of pain, and there was music playing in the background. Of course, it sounded more like Bach than a choir of angels, but at least he wasn’t trudging through a raging inferno with someone poking a pitchfork at his back. He was sure Jonathan Kent had wanted to do that to him more than once. Lex smiled.

If he hadn’t ended up in Hell--and if he were honest, he figured it’d always been a toss up which way he’d go--then this must be Heaven, and that meant there was a chance he’d see Clark again sometime because Clark was definitely angel material. He didn’t think being a Kryptonian would matter--he’d have to consult with God’s legal department about that one. Except there probably weren’t any lawyers on this end of things. Damn. Oops--he was going to have to watch that now he supposed. He figured they’d get him a guidebook or something. A list of commandments. Maybe a tour. Being good didn’t come automatically, and he really didn’t want to fuck ... screw ... uh, mess things up now that they’d let him in. He had a sneaking suspicion that someone up here had lost a bet and been forced to take him, but he wasn’t going to complain. And he didn’t want to give them any reason to change their minds about him.

***

“How’s he doing?”

“He lost a lot of blood, but his body’s recovering nicely. Probably five times the healing rate of a normal gunshot wound. Possibly higher.”

“Good. Make sure you’re recording all the data. Who knows how long we’ll have the opportunity to study him like this.”

“Yes, Dr. Messina.”

***

“Clark?”

Clark turned his head towards Bruce. He couldn’t remember when such a simple movement had been so difficult. It had been years since he’d had to deal with being vulnerable physically. He looked over to where Bruce was chained against the wall, Dick’s head resting awkwardly against his shoulder; Dick looked to be asleep.

“What?” Clark said quietly, meeting Bruce’s eyes.

“Have you ever been exposed to Kryptonite for this long?”

Clark didn’t even have to think about it. “No,” he said. “I’ve only ever dealt with short-term exposure. A few hours at most. This is ... this is new.” And uncomfortable, although he didn’t have to say it. He suspected that fact was written all over his face.

Clark could feel the loss of his powers as if they were something completely tangible. Essentially, he was just as human as anyone else in the room at the moment. Probably more so than Spider-man. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the idea. Being super-powered was a huge part of his identity--not just the part that put on a cape and tried to save the world, but the part of him that needed his strength to survive every day.

“Any ideas?” Bruce said, and Clark couldn’t stop the look of surprise that leapt to his face. Jeez, if Bruce was asking him for ideas, they were pretty much screwed. Bruce was the idea man; Clark was the muscle--or at least that’s the way things had usually played out in the past. Clark knew he wasn’t stupid, but Bruce and Lex just thought on an entirely different level from the rest of them. Clark felt a twinge of panic as he thought about Lex. He pushed it away and concentrated on Bruce.

“You’re asking me? For ideas? Not a good sign, Bruce,” Clark said, trying to grin and failing. Miserably. Bruce nodded a reluctant acknowledgment, and then there was silence. Clark could see Bruce struggling with something, struggling to put something into words.

“He was still alive when they took him away,” Clark said softly. He’d always known how close Bruce and Lex were, had known and accepted the relationship as one of the few good things in Lex’s childhood. Bruce’s dark eyes flickered over him. Nodded again. Once. Dark Knights apparently didn’t talk about their feelings.

“You still love him,” Clark said, the truth of it written on Bruce’s face. He was surprised that he didn’t even feel angry about it. He supposed he’d always known it was there, under the surface. Everything with Bruce was buried somewhere. An underground cavern. A basement vault. A ripple of feeling as deep as the earth’s core.

“It’s not like that.”

“It’s okay, Bruce. I get it.” Clark really did get it, although he knew Bruce wouldn’t necessarily see it that way.

Bruce closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “I’ve known him almost all my life, Clark. I shared a room with him for eight years. It’s a long time.”

“I know. He feels the same, you know,” Clark said. Lex didn’t talk about it, didn’t say it, but it was always there in how he looked at Bruce, how he moved around him--an ease of motion that Lex just didn’t have with other people. Oh sure, he always exuded elegance and grace, the way his hips swayed like the gentle rocking of a ship. Lex had different movements around people he didn’t care about--seemingly effortless, constantly moving, but hips that swung in wider arcs, curves that circumvented contact and emotion rather than moving closer, wrapping around. With Bruce, Lex moved in close, tight, let himself be touched, drawn in, protected. Lex’s body flowed around Bruce like water over rock. The opportunities for that kind of contact were rare these days, but Clark knew it when he saw it--the moment at the party before everything went to hell--Lex’s desire to let someone in, let someone else be strong, let someone keep the world at bay for a second, a moment, a lifetime.

“No one who’s loved him has ever stopped,” Bruce said. It was a simple statement of fact, not a declaration. Clark could read it in his body language. It was just the way the world worked with them. There was nothing to be done about it. Clark wondered what would have happened if he’d ever challenged Lex about it, pushed the issue, insisted on more distance there. He didn’t think he would have liked the results. Perhaps that’s why he’d never done it. Never even thought about it--not seriously. Maybe he didn’t want to know who Lex would choose. A hint of uncertainty tugged at him, and suddenly his heart felt like the most vulnerable part of his body.

“He heals incredibly fast,” Bruce said, as if it were something Clark didn’t already know, hadn’t seen tested a thousand times in Smallville. “It used to piss me off in high school. I’d kick his ass in a training session, and he wouldn’t even be sore the next day. I’d be walking around with bruises for the next week, and he’d be laughing.”

Clark grinned. Yeah, Lex’s healing abilities were occasionally annoying, but it meant rough sex was never really a worry. It occurred to him that Bruce knew that too, but Clark stopped his mind from going down that path. Lex had had too few people in his life who really loved him, and Bruce was a good man. A good friend to them both. He wasn’t going to be jealous. He wasn’t. Not now. Not when Lex was hurt and alone and possibly ... Clark refused to think about the possibilities.

“What do you think they plan to do with us?” Clark asked. “It’s going to be hard for them to hide six people from the world. People will notice if we’re not around.”

At least he hoped so. The world occasionally tended to take its heroes for granted. But even if the world forgot, there were his parents. Lois. Their friends. Alfred. The Justice League. Even Lionel, certainly, would question the disappearance of his only son.

Clark’s eyes narrowed at the thought. What exactly was Lionel’s place in all of this? Scarface had taunted Lex with the possibility of Lionel’s involvement, had seemed to know exactly how to push Lex into anger. Of course, their animosity was hardly a secret, but still, there was something about this that had Lionel’s fingerprints on it.

“I honestly don’t know what they plan to do--” Bruce said, after a moment of silence.

The sound of a key turning in a lock caught their attention. The heavy door to the room began to open with the creak of aged metal. Dick stirred against Bruce’s chest. Peter and Harry raised their heads, suddenly alert.

“--but I suspect we’re about to find out,” Bruce concluded grimly.

***

“Martha, would you put that phone down? There’s nothing to worry about.” Jonathan sighed and looked at his unopened copy of _The Daily Planet_ longingly. He laid it on the breakfast table.

“It’s not like Clark not to call when he said he would,” Martha said stubbornly. “It’s not like Lex, either, for that matter.”

“It’s only just after eight in the morning. They probably had a late night with that alumni thing in New York.”

“It doesn’t matter. Clark said he would call first thing this morning and let me know how it went. He was nervous yesterday afternoon when he called, and he said he had a bad feeling about things. I know better than to ignore my son’s instincts, Jonathan, and you should too.”

Martha beat the muffin batter vigorously as she talked, and Jonathan sighed as the thought of warm, soft blueberry muffins floated out the window. Even he knew that the muffins were not going to survive that sort of beating--he had nothing to look forward to except stiff, dense puck-like wonders that were going to be more blue than blueberry if she kept that up.

Jonathan eased himself out of his chair, and rescued the bowl from her hands. Sure enough, the batter was already a uniform purply-blue. He guided her gently to a chair and poured her a cup of coffee.

“Let me finish the muffins,” he said, knowing that she’d feel better later if she could blame him for their failure to resemble something edible. He reached for the tins and started measuring out the batter.

“Jonathan, I’m worried,” she said. “There’s no answer at the penthouse, no answer at their hotel. Clark’s voice-mail at the Planet says he won’t be in until Monday, but that’s not unusual. I think he forgets to update the message.”

“But he would never forget to call his mother?” Jonathan said, pushing the blue batter off the spoon with the tip of his finger, watching it thud heavily in the bottom of the pan. Yeah, these muffins were probably going to have to be classified as potentially dangerous weapons.

“You’re doubting my intuition?” Martha asked archly, eyebrow raised like the peaked roof of the barn. Christ, he knew that look. He doubted very much that anything short of an immediate phone call from Clark could save him now.

“No, dear,” he started, and winced when he realized how that sounded. He should’ve stayed out in the field with the cows and let Martha play telephone tag with the boys.

“Jonathan, he may be the strongest man on the planet, but he’s still my son. When he says he’s going to call, he calls. I know something’s wrong,” Martha said, and he could hear the note of fear in her voice. He wiped his hands on the tea towel, and put his arms around her.

“Fine. Keep phoning. I’ll get that damn cell phone Lex gave us and see if his people have heard from him. Fair enough?” he said. Martha nodded against his shoulder. He held her a little bit tighter.

If Clark had simply forgotten to call, he was going to have a nice long talk with that young man about needlessly upsetting his mother. If it was something else ... Jonathan pushed the thought aside and went to find the second phone and the list of numbers for getting in touch with Lex in an emergency.

***

Lex opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. He was staring up into a face that he was fairly certain nobody’s mother could love. The scar-faced man was examining him; Lex felt rough fingers clasp his chin and move his head from side to side. He glared and resisted the movement, frustrated at his own weakness when he found there was little he could do to prevent being man-handled.

“So you see, General Seine,” a woman in a white lab coat was saying, “his recovery is remarkable. Even without enhancements. His baseline recovery time is at least five times the normal, possibly higher.”

Lex couldn’t help it. He snickered. The two people stared at him with open amazement.

“Your name is General Sane?” Lex said, incredulously. The man’s dark eyes narrowed at him menacingly. The woman seemed to shift uncomfortably beside him; she tucked her clipboard against her chest like a shield.

“Seine,” she repeated, and this time her pronunciation was closer to ‘senn.’ “Like the river. In France,” she said helpfully. Lex continued to smirk.

“Are you sure it’s not In-sane?” Lex asked thoughtfully, and immediately regretted it when his chin was seized again in a powerful hand.

“I believe Mr. Luthor is feeling well enough to move to stage two of the experiments, doctor,” Scarface said coldly.

“But we haven’t received word from Thrall--”

“I am giving you word,” General Seine said, and Lex could see the scar cutting his face whiten around the edges. It seemed to writhe like a particularly restless worm when he talked. “In fact, I will be more than pleased to help.”

Lex couldn’t see what was happening. He was still strapped to a lab table, and his range of movement was limited to turning his head. He pushed against the straps, straining to see if he could loosen them at all. Somehow he doubted that he wanted General Insane to help with whatever treatment they had planned for him.

Lex turned his head in time to see the general removing his weapon from its holster. He held it up in front of Lex.

“I believe you recognize this. SIG Sauer P225,” he said matter-of-factly, and Lex felt his blood run cold. Images flashed through his head. Standing nose to chin with this man, standing between him and Clark. Clark writhing beneath a Kryptonite collar. The red roaring in his ears as he heard his father mentioned, wondered why he wasn’t surprised that this hell was somehow connected to the man who had raised him. Then a dull percussive sound, the hot flash of ripping flesh, blood spilling warm and red against his white shirt. He had fallen, then; fallen into Clark’s arms, mumbled a half-hearted apology as he felt lips touch his ever so briefly. The rest had been darkness mixed with moments of bright white light. The sound of strangers and rhythmic beeps, the steady squeeze and release of a blood pressure sleeve on his arm, wires and pads jutting from his chest.

Lex heard the click of the doctor’s heels on a tile floor, heard her speak into what could only be an intercom. “Please prep for immediate surgery. Stage two. I’ll be bringing him right down.”

He felt the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against his side, the opposite side to where the bullet had entered the first time. Lex lost his ability to breathe.

“Please, don’t do this,” he said, and it sickened him a little to know he was begging. All he wanted was to see Clark again. To tell him he loved him. Was that too much to ask for? He felt the general push the gun tightly against his skin, his eyes never leaving Lex’s face.

“Where’s the fun in that?” the man murmured, and it wasn’t any stretch to believe this man was insane. Lex heard the click of the doctor’s shoes again, wondered if he could count on her for rescue of any kind.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she murmured and put a hand over the gun.

Lex let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

“You’ll destroy his liver if you shoot him there. Here,” she said, and adjusted the position of the gun lower down on Lex’s side.

Lex closed his eyes in horror, heard the shot at the same time that he felt the side of his body burst open. He could feel his right hand growing wet as something warm ran over it and onto the floor. The room echoed with the sound of laughter.

Somewhere far away, someone was screaming for Clark.

***


	3. Twenty-Four Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in 24 hours.

Dick watched as the door to their prison swung inwards. From where he was tucked against Bruce’s shoulder, he couldn’t see very well, and the manacles around his wrists were heavy as lead. Of course that made sense since they seemed to be made of the stuff. He shifted awkwardly and grunted as Bruce nudged him with his shoulder. It was a not-so-subtle cue to stay put, but Dick didn’t think Batman was in any position to pull rank considering he was chained to a wall. Dick craned his neck so he could see better.

A shadow fell across him and Dick looked up. The man was tall, very tall, or at least he seemed that way from where Dick was seated on the floor. He was used to looking up at Bruce and Clark, and this man made them seem small. That wasn’t a good sign. He was dressed completely in black from his square-heeled steel-tipped boots to the beret perched on his head. His red twirling moustache made him look like some kind of cartoon villain, but the leather riding crop he was tapping against his gloved palm didn’t look like any kind of joke. Dick couldn’t help nestling back against Bruce. He could feel Bruce flexing in his chains. It was almost as reassuring as a hug.

“What have you done with Lex?” Clark was struggling to his feet. It was painful to watch as he teetered about like a drunken colt, sheer willpower the only thing driving him. With his bloodied shirt–-Lex’s blood, Dick reminded himself–-and the sickly greenish hue from the collar, Clark looked like he’d stumbled out of a horror novel.

The man-–Dick could now see the ugly raised scar slashing across his face–-just stood and grinned at them, if it could be called a grin. The scarring made his mouth lopsided, bisecting his lips unevenly. And Dick had thought the Joker had a creepy smile. Scarface surveyed them with that gruesome smile, each in turn, as if they were chattel at an auction. Dick didn’t like the way the man’s eyes lingered on him, or on Clark. Goose bumps prickled his flesh, and he knew the others felt it too. Dick would bet Peter’s spider-sense was definitely tingling now.

All things considered that was still totally cool.

“Lex,” Clark said again. “Is he alive, you bastard?”

Clark had made it to his knees, and Dick would’ve gone to him and helped him to his feet if he hadn’t felt Bruce’s subtle body shift. No. He wanted Dick to stay close. Bruce didn’t like the way Scarface was looking at Dick either, and Dick was kind of relieved. Sometimes it was so hard to read what Bruce was feeling, so hard to tell if he felt anything at all, and Dick really needed to know. Yeah, there were times when Bruce was too cautious, too protective, but right now Dick was kind of grateful. Bruce would never let anything happen to him if he could prevent it. It was a comforting thought.

Not that Dick was scared, but it was sobering to see Superman and Batman both tied up and helpless. So he’d bide his time, do what Bruce wanted, and maybe there’d be a chance to show his mettle later. Alfred was always telling him every situation was a test of a man’s mettle. He’d show them he was just as much a man of steel as Clark or Bruce.

“Goddammit, just tell me. Is he alive?” The agony in Clark’s voice was clear, and it wasn’t all from the Kryptonite poisoning.

“Lex. A diminutive of Alexander, if I’m not mistaken,” the man said with the tone of someone delivering a pleasant, but boring lecture.

“Yes, Alexander. Lex Luthor. You shot him.”

“Yes, yes, I did,” the man said. He seemed about to say something else, but stopped. His grin grew grotesquely, and Dick couldn’t look away. It was horrible and mesmerizing at the same time. He could see Peter and Harry staring with the same silent fascination, and he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to attract attention to themselves. From behind, Dick heard the soft clink of a chain. It wasn’t definite, but he thought Bruce might have slipped free from one of his bonds. Dick wanted to grin with pride–no one had yet created a trap Batman couldn’t find a way out of. Eventually.

“Is he alive?” Clark pleaded, falling back on his haunches, strength clearly depleted.

“Stop torturing him,” Bruce snapped, and Dick was reminded how difficult this must be for Bruce as well. Lex was his best friend, and ... well, he’d been a lot more than that. Dick didn’t like to dwell on it. The past was the past. And he was going to be Bruce’s future. “Just answer Clark’s question. Is Lex alive?”

Dick watched the scarred face turn towards them like the slow beacon of a lighthouse. A step, two steps, and the man was standing right over them. He was easily six foot eight. A flick of his wrist and Dick heard Bruce hiss behind him, looked back in time to see a streak of blood appear across Bruce’s left cheek where the riding crop had caught him. Dick let out a cry and started to get up, but the back of a hand sent him sprawling face first against the concrete floor.

“Maybe I should teach your boy a lesson.”

“Touch him again, and I’ll kill you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw Bruce bring one free hand up, but he was too far from the man’s vital areas to do much damage. He delivered a sharp blow just below the groin, but it wasn’t enough to cause Scarface more than a moment of discomfort. Dick watched as the man seized Bruce’s wrist in his own gloved hand. The room was silent until there was the agonizing pop of bones, and Dick could see sweat standing out on Bruce’s brow. He looked white.

Jesus, Dick thought. He broke Bruce’s wrist.

Scarface dropped Bruce’s hand in his lap, squatting down until they were face to face. “I’m impressed, Mr. Wayne, but don’t think for a moment you have any chance of escaping.” The man leaned in and whispered in Bruce’s ear, loudly enough they could all hear what was said.

“And as for your boy ...” Scarface trailed off with a meaningful glance in Dick’s direction.

“I’m not anyone’s boy!” Dick was getting tired of being talked about like an object, and he was more than a little terrified that this man had just broken Bruce’s wrist bone as if it were a toothpick.

“Over my dead body,” Bruce said evenly, completely ignoring Dick’s assertion.

“That can be arranged. One broken piece at a time,” Scarface returned.

Once they were out of here, Dick was going to have a long talk with Bruce about exactly what partnership meant. And more importantly what a relationship could be like if only Bruce would let it happen. He knew Bruce loved him, even had a pretty good idea Bruce wanted him, but he was stubborn and proper and that thing with Lionel accusing him of having an “inappropriate relationship” with Dick had pretty much sunk any chances of Bruce even thinking about anything until Dick was well and properly a legal adult. Which he was. Well past it, to be honest, since he’d celebrated his nineteenth birthday this spring. Bruce was still holding back, treating him not quite like a partner and not quite like a friend, but more like something that should be kept in a museum, looked at but never touched. It was becoming tiresome.

“Lex,” Dick reminded them all. “What happened to Lex?”

The scar-faced man stood and stepped away from Bruce. He fixed Clark with a pitying gaze before resting his eyes on Dick. Dick held his ground and refused to look away. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction.

Don’t do anything stupid, Bruce, Dick thought. Please. Just once, don’t try to protect me. I can’t bear to watch you get yourself killed over me.

The man nodded at him, as if registering some unspoken approval, and said: “Mr. Luthor was alive when I left him. You have your play-thing–” His glance at Bruce made it entirely too clear what he meant. “–and I have mine.”

“No,” Clark choked out. “Leave Lex alone. Please. I’ll do anything you want, just–”

Dick could see Bruce staring at Clark with something between pity and contempt. You never gave in, never acquiesced to terrorist demands. First rule of being a superhero. But even if Dick knew Bruce didn’t like to admit it, there were always exceptions. Mitigating circumstances, Alfred liked to call them. FUBAR, Dick thought. Fucked up beyond all recognition. It was simply a matter of semantics.

“If it’s any consolation, Superman,” Scarface offered, the word ‘Superman’ laced with contempt, “he may not survive the night.”

With that, the man turned towards the door.

“Not going to chain me back up?” Bruce taunted. “I’m Batman, you know. Are you insane?”

Dick shuddered as the man stopped mid-step. His foot hung suspended for a moment, then one heavy black boot thudded against the concrete. Dick watched the precision turn back towards Batman.

“It’s Seine. General Seine.” His voice was angry with too many repetitions. He didn’t even seem to realize that wasn’t what Bruce had meant until he caught the smile forming at the edge of Bruce’s mouth. A respectful nod of the head, and then, “He said you were resourceful.”

“Who’s he? Your boss?”

General Seine shook his head, the fractured grin returning. “You only get one. I’ll send someone in to see to your wrist. If you attempt to incapacitate him, your boy will suffer.”

“I’m not his boy!” Dick protested again, but the door was already closing.

Bruce reached out the hand with the broken wrist to stroke lightly down Dick’s cheek.

“Yes, you are,” he said softly.

Then he passed out.

***

Harry watched the scene unfolding with trepidation. Bruce and that scar-faced giant, Clark looking like he would keel over at any minute, and the kid, Bruce’s partner, looking young and brave and totally alone. Pete was surveying everything with quiet anger, sucking on his lower lip the way he did when he wanted desperately to do something, and couldn’t.

Harry didn’t belong here, wasn’t one of them. Sure, he’d known Bruce and Lex in high school, knew they were brilliant and strange and attracted trouble like money attracted friends. But they’d always been straight with him–or at least that’s what Harry had thought. He’d known they were close, had a pretty damn good idea they were fucking in high school, and had steadfastly held his ground when not one, but both of them had hit on him during that horrible period when they weren’t speaking to one another. Harry had never seen two people more miserable.

He should’ve put it together. Bruce and his crazy martial arts, his ability to never get caught outside his room after curfew, and there was still that incident where Lex had broken his wrist falling from the roof of Excelsior. They’d been a little vague about the details.

But then again, Pete was his best friend. Ex-best friend, he corrected. He saw Pete every day or damn near, and he’d had no idea Pete was spinning webs and running around New York in red pajamas and a mask. He lived with the guy! How could he have been so blind?

 _You never knew any of them_ , a voice inside his brain whispered. _Never_.

Harry looked around to see where the voice had come from. He shook his head and caught Pete staring at him with worry. Harry looked away.

The voice was right. Harry didn’t really know them. Not in the ways that mattered. Not the way real friends knew each other inside and out.

And they didn’t know him at all.

***

Lex remembered screaming. He just couldn’t remember why.

The white lights were back, brighter than before, and somewhere in the background was the steady beep of equipment, muted voices, the tapping of a pencil. The sounds were clear, distinct, as if he was hearing each one on its own channel. Someone was tearing the edge of a Styrofoam coffee cup. A piece of paper slid to the floor scraping against the linoleum. He heard the swish of a lab coat bending to pick it up.

“He’s waking up.”

Footsteps–a woman’s high heels, a pair of sneakers dragging its laces, the precise tap of military boots. Lex refused to open his eyes, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing the fear he knew he couldn’t hide. He wasn’t Clark. He wasn’t even Bruce, and he’d never been stoic or fearless. Stupid and drunk didn’t count. Neither did reckless or self-destructive. This was entirely different.

“We know you’re awake, Mr. Luthor.” The doctor’s voice, chiding him like a disobedient schoolboy. Lex held back the urge to stick out his tongue at her. After all, she’d been no help at all last time.

Oh God. Last time. A second bullet in his body, and Lex couldn’t help but wince. The blood, the bright shock of pain. He wanted Clark.

“Good. I see you’re remembering.”

Lex hated her. In another life she might’ve been his type, long legs and long dark hair, glasses that spoke of intelligence and something dangerous hiding in her eyes. Lex felt her cold hand on his arm and his eyes flashed open involuntarily.

“There you are,” she murmured, tying off his arm with an elastic. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

She held up a needle, the vial full of something green and glittery. Kryptonite. Lex flinched, even knowing it wouldn’t hurt him. How much of that damn stuff did these people have? Clark was in terrible danger. He had to help him.

“I’d worry about yourself, Mr. Luthor.” The General’s voice came from behind the doctor. Lex felt a twinge as she inserted the needle and pushed the Kryptonite into his veins. She untied the elastic and told someone named Trey to make another pot of coffee. The doctor went back to checking her monitors.

“Where’s Clark? Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” General Seine leaned over him speculatively, tapping what looked like a leather riding crop against his hand. Lex wasn’t sure but it looked like there was dried blood on the edge. “Because we _can_ , that’s why. Because the world’s so-called heroes think they’re running things, and they need a reminder that they’re only human. Even the ones who aren’t.”

“All they’ve ever done is try to help people,” Lex whispered.

“No, that’s not all.” General Seine stroked the leather crop against Lex’s cheek. Lex twisted his head to avoid the touch, but with the restraints holding him there was really nowhere to go. He closed his eyes and tried to make his face go blank. It was hard with cold leather sliding over his skin like a snake.

“The doctor said this wouldn’t hurt.” Seine’s breath smelled of stale peppermints, and Lex fought the gagging sensation in his stomach. “I make no such promises.”

Lex swallowed a scream as the riding crop bit into the naked flesh of his chest. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the sheets beneath him. There was the sharp sting of leather. No bondage games he’d ever played had prepared him for someone who truly enjoyed inflicting this kind of pain.

He refused to scream.

In the background, he could hear the doctor discussing blood loss ratios and heart rates with some bored assistant. The guy liked to scuff his runners against the floor, and they squeaked when he walked. Every thwack of the riding crop caught Lex unaware, found flesh remarkably tender and soft. Lex tried to concentrate on the background noise. The coffee pot starting to drip, the squeaking shoes, the pencil tap.

He felt something wet hit against his face, then grimaced when he realized the taste of his own blood was on his lips. Maybe if he threw up, Slash would stop this. More likely he’d let Lex choke on his own vomit. It was a sobering thought. Lex could feel tears spilling out from beneath lids closed tight against the sight of the riding crop rising and falling against his flesh.

He wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t.

Drip. Squeak. Tap.

“If you scream, I’ll stop,” the general promised, leather slicing into the tender skin of Lex’s thigh. It felt like a knife ripping him open.

He screamed.

***

“Wayne Manor,” Alfred Pennyworth said politely into the phone.

“Um, is that Alfred?” The voice on the other end of the phone was deep and uncertain, touched with just a bit of a Midwest accent. Jonathan Kent, Alfred realized after a moment. Strange that Clark’s father would be calling.

“Yes, Mr. Kent. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh, you recognized me.” Mr. Kent seemed surprised, but Alfred prided himself on his memory for voices. It was one of the things that made him such an asset to this particular family with their ... unique vocation. It was important that he be more use to the masters than simply being able to lay out a topcoat with an appropriate coloured tie, although that in itself was a skill lost on Master Bruce. Probably the best reason in the world to go with a wardrobe of all black.

“Certainly, sir,” Alfred said. “I’m afraid Master Bruce is not home at present. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Bruce isn’t home either?” Mr. Kent repeated, and the level of worry in his voice seemed to grow. Alfred could almost picture the man’s brow furrowing like the fields he ploughed on the farm in Smallville. Alfred had been there once, the pleasant yellow farmhouse full of sunshine–a world away from the Cave beneath the manor. It explained a great deal about the differences between Clark and Bruce, Alfred thought. Sometimes he wished he could go back and change things.

“Regrettably, sir, he and Master Dick are still in New York. The Excelsior Alumni event was last evening, and–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that, Alfred.”

“I assume Masters Clark and Lex were also in attendance?” Alfred didn’t understand the nature of the call, and Mr. Kent didn’t appear to be forthcoming with an explanation. The man seemed content to dispense information in his own time and fashion, and Alfred suspected he was always one infinitesimal step away from being called “Al.”

“Yes, but–” There was a short pause. “Alfred, have you heard from them? Any of them?”

“No, sir, but I didn’t expect to.”

“Could you, I mean, do you think you could try contacting Bruce on his ... whatever you call that thing?”

“Cell phone, sir?” Alfred didn’t lightly discuss such matters on the telephone, even with Superman’s father. “I will be happy to raise him, but it would perhaps be prudent to advise me of the nature of the situation. Has something happened?”

“I really don’t know, Alfred. Clark was supposed to call, and no one seems to have heard from them. The hotel was too busy dealing with some ruckus to answer my questions, and none of Lex’s people have the slightest idea where he is. He’s not answering his phone.” Mr. Kent paused as if to let the import of that statement sink in. “ _Any_ of his phones.”

Alfred felt an inkling of concern. Master Lex had practically had a cell phone grafted to him since the technology had been available. It used to drive Master Bruce insane when they were teenagers. Alfred had fished more than one ruined piece of equipment out of the back koi pond.

“Mr. Kent, I will investigate the matter promptly and contact you with whatever I learn. Will that be sufficient?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. “Sure, Alfred. Thanks. I know it’s silly to worry, but ... well, Clark’s my son, and Lex is ... well, don’t tell him I said so, but he’s grown on me. I just want to know they’re all right. Both of them.”

Alfred nodded, knowing exactly what that felt like, and feeling the first prickling of worry. He switched the phone to his other hand while he jotted notes for himself and listened to Mr. Kent express a father’s worries. Alfred would need to contact the hotel in New York, and check the Bat-computer for a newspaper report of whatever had happened at the hotel. He was surprised there’d been nothing on the local news. He had the number for the Justice League headquarters, of course, but he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Master Bruce hated having to rely on other people. He wouldn’t appreciate Alfred calling them unless he knew without a doubt it was an emergency.

“I will get back to you as soon as possible, Mr. Kent. You are at home?” An answer in the affirmative, and then Alfred was saying good-bye, and starting to dial Bruce’s cell phone.

As he counted the unanswered rings, the spark of worry started to grow into a flame.

***

“You said you’d stop if he screamed.”

General Seine glanced at Dr. Messina’s assistant and tried to figure out if the boy had a death-wish. He must since he was still talking, and he drank his own coffee. The boy made terrible coffee. Seine had considered the possibility that the assistant was trying to slowly poison them, but it did not appear to be the case. He was simply a gifted chemist who could not mix granulated coffee and boiling water in a combination which would result in a pleasing beverage.

But the boy was rather good with gases.

“Your point?”

“Well, he screamed, and you didn’t stop.” Seine waited. He could only assume a point would be forthcoming. “I mean, that doesn’t seem very ... I don’t know ... sporting?”

“I wasn’t aware that torture was supposed to be ... sporting.” Seine thought that would defeat the point of torture altogether, which was to inflict as much pain and humiliation as the human body could stand. And then to inflict more.

The boy–his name was something flat and bland, something Seine could never be bothered to remember–was looking at him curiously, as if they were in fact having a real conversation. Like equals. Seine wondered if the boy would squeak if he cut him open and hung his intestines around his neck like a bloody necklace. He smiled at the thought.

“Aren’t there rules for that sort of thing?” The assistant clearly had no idea his life was in jeopardy. If he had realized his peril, Seine suspected he would’ve stopped talking and made some gesture to placate him–like a cup of decent coffee. Or an ear. “A kind of torturer’s code or something?”

“Not per se.” Seine felt a headache settling behind his eyes. The lack of understanding afforded to those in his profession was really rather dismal.

“So lying is just par for the course?”

“Yes.” The assistant seemed to be catching on now. Good. Perhaps he would go away.  
“And you don’t feel bad about that?”

“Why should I?” Seine really didn’t understand the nature of these questions. He was the one who conducted interrogations. He did not answer questions.

“I don’t know. He’d already given up. It feels a bit like kicking someone when they’re down.”

“That is precisely the time to kick someone to ensure they stay down.” Really, Seine didn’t think the concept was difficult to grasp.

The boy shrugged and shoved his glasses up against the bridge of his nose. “It just seems kind of ...” He trailed off, and Seine was almost positive the boy was toying with the word ‘crazy.’ It would not be a wise choice. “Unnecessary.”

“Most of what I do could be considered unnecessary to an untrained observer.” Seine noticed the boy–what was his name?– had nails that were bitten to the quick. It brought to mind his early work with rats. Ah, those were the days. Very few people used rats anymore. They’d been rather overdone since the 1984 resurgence of that damn book by Orwell, all that Room 101 garbage. So melodramatic.

“But everything you do has a purpose?” The boy seemed to be searching for some kind of existential meaning to what they were doing. Perhaps he should speak with Thrall. No doubt he would provide a better explanation than Seine ever could.

“Everything has a purpose,” Seine confirmed. Of course, it was useless to add that those purposes were often vague, selfish, or simply the culmination of a need to see what blood looked like spilling from a man’s veins. Or that everything he was saying could be a lie.

Seine’s answer seemed to satisfy whatever curiosity the young man possessed. He ambled off towards the coffee machine, sneakers squeaking as he walked. Dr. Messina entered the lab and scowled in his direction.

“Trey, I need an infusion of the SG-1 sleeping gas piped to the A-17 junction ASAP. Don’t release it–just get it ready.”

Yes, that was his name. Trey. Flat and functional. A surface to build something else on. Nothing remarkable on its own. A boy like that would’ve been one of two things in the killing fields of Cambodia–a soon-forgotten dead soldier, or a perfect executioner. Seine would have to consider the matter more carefully. There was a chance he could be moulded, shaped into something usable. Better they find a way to use him before someone else did.

Seine returned to the job of cleaning his riding crop, soaping the leather and rubbing it to a smooth, supple black.

***

Bruce felt something touch his cheek. His first response was to defend himself, lash out, but the pain in his wrist and the gentle pressure against his skin told him to wait. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Dick was leaning over him, a blood-stained cloth in his hand.

“Your hands are free,” Bruce said, sitting up, ignoring the rush of dizziness. They were in a different room than the prison cell. The walls were white, the room sparsely decorated. Besides the bed where he was lying, there were two chairs and a small table (bolted to the floor, Bruce noticed), and a sink and toilet behind a paper screen.

“Are you okay?” Dick asked, and his blue eyes were wide. “Your wrist–”

“Will heal.” Especially since someone had wrapped it efficiently in a tensor bandage. The pain was manageable.

Bruce eased off the bed and started to survey the room. Roughly twelve by twelve, concrete walls and floor, lighting sources seemed to be non-electrical. He paid special attention to the large mirror over the sink. One-way glass, no doubt. Not a surprise at all.

“Bruce, could you just–”

“Where are the others?

The door was solid reinforced steel and there appeared to be no locking mechanism or handle on the inside. Pity. If they would’ve just given him something to work with, anything, maybe he could get them out of here. He went back to examining the mirror, running his good hand along its edges. He supposed he could break it, but the wires running along the side looked like they might be rigged to explode. The last thing they needed was to be picking embedded glass out of their skin.

Dick hadn’t answered his question, and Bruce turned around, somewhat perturbed and prepared to give a lecture. He found Dick sitting dejectedly on the edge of the bed, looking at the bloody cloth in his lap. Bruce felt something inside him soften.

“Dick? Are you hurt?”

He’d never been very good at giving comfort, worse at taking it, and even though he’d been learning to be careful with Dick’s feelings, it was always a struggle. Lex had told him he needed to fall in love, but he’d never mentioned it would be so difficult to learn how to love someone else. With Lex it had been easy–well, if he was honest, it had never been _easy_ by any normal definition of the word–but they’d stumbled through together. Dick expected him to know what to do, and even though he could teach the boy how to disarm an attacker or leap off a building, he didn’t feel qualified to teach him about love.

Even though Bruce was fairly certain that’s what this shaky feeling was.

Love. Different from what he’d had with Lex. Slower and gentler, maybe sweeter in the end, but too many things had gone wrong in his life, and he wasn’t about to lose Dick’s friendship, his partnership, for something that wasn’t a sure thing.

“Dick?”

There was a mumbled response, and Bruce was about to tell him to speak up when he realized he didn’t want to sound like Alfred or worse, the boy’s father, and instead he sat down beside him and slipped an arm around Dick’s shoulders. Almost immediately he felt Dick’s head against his chest, arms wrapping around him. Tight. Bruce brushed his right hand through Dick’s dark hair. He needed it cut, and Bruce supposed noticing that fact was a little bit like love too.

“Are you all right?” Bruce felt the nod against his shoulder and he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until the sense of relief pushed it out of his chest. His grip on Dick tightened even more. He felt responsible for him. And more than that. Much more.

“They moved us a few hours ago. I think they gave you something to make you sleep ‘cause I couldn’t wake you up.” Dick’s voice sounded young, and Bruce imagined how frightened he must’ve been, alone, unable to wake him. Bruce nodded and stroked his hair. “I don’t know where they took the others, but they said they’d come for us later. It was the General. Seine. And a bunch of his men. They were well-armed, well-prepared.” Dick looked up at Bruce apologetically. “I didn’t think it was wise ... with Clark hurt and everyone tied up–”

“You did everything exactly right,” Bruce assured him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t want you hurt either!” The frustration in Dick’s voice was obvious. He touched Bruce’s bandaged wrist lightly. “I don’t like seeing you unconscious or bleeding.” A hand brushed at the dried blood from the cut on Bruce’s cheek. “Dammit, Bruce, don’t you get it? Don’t you know how I feel about you?”

Bruce shook his head, trying to caution Dick against saying too much, exposing their weaknesses, although Bruce figured whoever had them was already apprised of those. “Now’s not the–”

“Not the time? Not the place? It never is. I’ve known you over four years, Bruce. I’ve shared your life, been your partner. I know you have a hard time with someone trying to love you–God, I know that–but can’t you accept I’m an adult? I know what I want. I’ve known since I was sixteen, and it wasn’t because you had a cool car or a cape or all the money in the world. It’s because you care so deeply you can’t bear to admit it. You care so much it hurts you, and you’re way too comfortable with hurting all the time.”

“Dick.”

“You took me home when you didn’t have to. I was an orphan circus brat, and you’re billionaire Bruce Wayne. You tried to save my parents, and when you couldn’t do that, you saved me. Gave me a home and a purpose.”

“You’re confusing gratitude with love.”

“Gratitude is writing a thank you card for that scratchy blue sweater Mrs. Kent knitted for Christmas. This is love, Bruce. I love you. And I know you love me, dammit. You’re just too stubborn and too scared to admit it.”

“I’m your legal guardian.”

“Not since I turned eighteen.”

“It’s not that–”

“Simple? Bull, and you know it. I’m not your kid. You didn’t adopt me. I was your ward, and it was either you or the State, and quite frankly I’m glad it was you. Yeah, Lionel freaked you out with that sexual misconduct rap, but there was nothing going on then. Even Lionel knew it. If he’d actually had something, he would’ve just blackmailed you.”

Dick was right, of course, but Bruce still didn’t think this was the time to discuss it. He’d been dodging this discussion for a year, maybe more, and he knew he was going to have to confront what he was feeling and why he was so afraid of what they both clearly wanted.

“There isn’t anything going on now either,” Bruce corrected.

Sure there’d been hugs and talks and Bruce had suspected Dick had a crush on him–a crush he was sure would eventually pass–but nothing had really happened between them. Dick had crawled in with him when the nightmares were bad, and Bruce could hardly begrudge the boy the comfort he was seeking. He’d done the same thing with Lex. Dick had sought him out whenever the mission went wrong, when they were both sore and discouraged and hurting, and they’d held onto each other in bruised sleep, but there’d been nothing more than that. Bruce knew he’d effectively prevented things from progressing, but he couldn’t seem to stop the twinges in his heart.

“There would be if you’d let it,” Dick said softly. “Do you know how often you touch me?”

Bruce thought about it. Dick was always moving, so bright and energetic. He was a spark of life in Bruce’s otherwise dark and shadowy world. He never tired of watching Dick twirl through the air, spent nights standing in his doorway listening to him breathe. Touching him would be like trying to hold a rainbow, always sparkling just out of reach.

He didn’t honestly know the answer to Dick’s question.

“You don’t, Bruce. If I want any affection from you, I practically have to force myself into your personal space. There’s a reason I started crawling into your bed after missions, and it’s not because I like the smell of antiseptic and muscle rub. I need to be close to you. I need to be able to show you someone cares. I care.”

A quick flicker of movement, and Dick was straddling Bruce’s thighs. Bruce found himself putting his hands on Dick’s slim hips to balance him. Not that Dick needed any help. The boy had perfect balance. Could do a handstand on a one-inch railing in the pouring rain and never falter.

He needed to stop thinking of him as a boy. Dick was nineteen. If Bruce was honest, he knew Dick had always been more experienced and less innocent than Bruce had given him credit for. He’d grown up with a travelling circus. He’d proudly informed Bruce he’d seen and done far more than Bruce had done by that age. But sometimes when Bruce looked at him, he remembered the stricken face, the moment of losing his parents, and even though Dick had been almost fifteen when it happened, in Bruce’s mind he was eight. The age he had been when his parents were killed. It was a hard image to overcome.

“It’s not a crush, Bruce,” Dick whispered, hands reaching up to cup his face. Slim fingers traced the edge of the cut on his cheek. “And sometimes I need to know you care too.” Dick’s voice was breathless and uncertain. “I know you feel it. I know it’s not just me. Bruce? Please?”

Bruce stared into those round blue eyes inches from his own, saw the need there. It was like seeing himself as a teenager, desperate for approval and attention. Falling in love with the wrong person entirely.

Even so, wrong for him or not, Lex had still been the best part of his life. Lex certainly hadn’t been his worst mistake, and Dick would most likely survive if this didn’t work. Bruce just wasn’t sure that _he_ would.

Lips brushed against his. He closed his eyes and held tighter to Dick’s hips, ignoring the dull ache in his wrist. The second kiss was firmer, more sure, and Bruce didn’t resist the slow, tentative kisses. He’d resisted for four years, and right now he didn’t feel like fighting anymore. Maybe it was the pain or the effects of the drugs, or maybe it was just time. He knew he should care they were being watched, but Dick was stroking warm hands down his back and making contented little moans. Bruce struggled not to push things ahead, let Dick set the pace. If this was going to be their only chance to be together, he wanted it to be everything Dick had imagined.

The gentle nudge of a tongue against his lips, and Bruce relaxed his mouth, allowed Dick’s exploration. It felt ... new, and yet there was a familiarity there too. Dick’s clean scent, still there in spite of their ordeal, and Bruce could choreograph every movement in his head. The minute shift to avoid bumping his nose, the hand on his lower back keeping him from pulling away. He knew Dick knew how to kiss, although he had no idea who taught him. Dick had made no secret he’d been with other people. A travelling circus apparently provided an extensive education. Bruce suspected Dick had told him that to reassure him, to convince Bruce he wouldn’t be seducing a virgin, but all it had done was spark a feeling of possessiveness and jealousy that had driven Bruce deeper into himself and away from the temptation in front of him. He couldn’t afford to have those kinds of feelings for someone again. He was Batman. He had responsibilities, and bedding his partner wasn’t on his agenda.

Except he loved him, and had for some time. Had been totally over-run by the boy’s indefatigable spirit and love of life, even in the face of tragedy. Dick had ploughed into his life like a freight train, and immediately disarmed his defences–tickling him during training, taking a hug when he needed it, rather than asking for it. Bruce wasn’t used to such open affection from someone–not even Lex–and it didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. He rather liked it. It meant he didn’t have to think about it so much. He could simply let it happen.

Dick’s mouth grew more insistent, the kiss deepening, and Bruce tightened his hold, let his good hand stray up into Dick’s hair and brought their mouths together, harder. Yes, Dick knew how to kiss, but Bruce had eons more experience, and as wonderful as this was, he wanted more, needed more, and it had been a damn long time since he’d had more. He heard Dick’s surprised groan as Bruce leaned back onto the bed, dragging Dick with him, and letting his tongue slip into Dick’s warm mouth. He’d never allowed himself to really think about the possibility of this happening, but there were Dick’s hands clutching at him, Dick’s hard cock pressed against his groin, and Bruce’s body responded in kind.

“God, Bruce, I–”

“Shhh,” Bruce whispered and kissed him again, trying to show what he felt even if he couldn’t find the words. He could hear movement outside the door, footsteps in the hallway. Not yet, he thought. He wasn’t ready. He needed this.

His hands slipped between them and unbuckled the belt at Dick’s waist. There was an eager moan from Dick, and Bruce found himself arching into the pressure against his groin. Jeez, it had been far too long. God, if only they had the time. He slipped the buckle off Dick’s belt. It was square and hard with sharp metal corners.

It wouldn’t be long now. There was the sound of an electronic key sliding into a lock, and Bruce shifted Dick slightly to the left. The kiss became more frantic, more passionate, as if Dick also sensed the impending interruption. Bruce wished they could just stay here, like this, but that wasn’t the way life worked. At least not his life.

And he had a job to do.

Dick tensed the instant the door opened, but Bruce held him in place, kissed him firmly, reassuringly, stroked his hair as if they had all the time in the world. He waited until the door was open all the way, giving the intruders a perfect view of their embrace. Dick started to pull away, but Bruce held him fast. Kissed him again with everything he was feeling–all the ache and fear and love. There was a disgusted snort from one of the men in the doorway, an uncomfortable laugh from someone further back.

Bruce estimated six to eight men at most.

Then he was in motion, one arm tight around Dick, protecting the vulnerable back of his head with a hand as he rolled them both to the floor. The palmed belt buckle flashed through the air with the precision of a batarang, and Bruce was on his feet even before the object had sunk into the neck of the first man through the door. There was a spurt of blood and a shriek of pain, then all hell broke loose.

“You used me as a distraction?” Dick asked angrily, bouncing to his feet and whipping off his dangling belt to use as a makeshift whip. He caught the raised arm of one of the men and pulled him into the room, slamming his head against the table.

“Behind you,” Bruce barked, and aimed a kick to the knees of a second man, as Dick spun around with a foot to his assailant’s groin. The man went down with a howl of pain. Dick was clearly pissed off. Good. It would serve them well in this case.

“Was that all it was?”

“What?”

Bruce used a sharp judo chop and incapacitated a third man, and an old-fashioned punch had a fourth spitting blood and teeth. It was awkward fighting in the small space, and as the fight spilled into the corridor Bruce had to keep the opponents on his right side to protect his damaged wrist.

“A distraction.” Dick was being doggedly stubborn. Another man went down, and another.

“It wasn’t just–”

“Duck!”

Bruce obeyed, squatting low without thought and felt Dick’s hands push against his shoulders as he flipped up and over him, landing behind Bruce. Bruce heard the sound of a knife hitting the floor.

“Come on,” Bruce said, even as he ducked a roundhouse kick and planted one of his own. He saw Dick scoop up the fallen blade. “We’re getting out of here.”

***

“Do you want me to go after them?” General Seine asked, watching the scene on the monitors. Wayne and his boy were making mincemeat of the squad assigned to guard them. Even on the black-and-white screen, Seine could see the spatters of blood against the white floor.

“No.” Thrall’s voice drifted lazily up from the voice box on the console. “Everything is going according to plan.”

Seine bristled at the thought of letting them escape. He frowned at the incompetence of the men sent to transfer Wayne and the boy to their new rooms. “ _My_ men would not have allowed them to gain the upper-hand.”

“I have no doubt.” Thrall sounded amused. “That is why _your_ men were not assigned to guard them.”

“Wayne escaping is part of the plan?”

Seine watched another man go down. The boy was nimble, quick on his feet, and stronger than he looked. He’d also been well-trained. Seine looked at Wayne’s image grudgingly–the man appeared to know what he was doing, even without the cape and cowl or his inventory of little gadgets. They were still trying to sort out what some of the things were they’d found hidden in pockets and compartments in his tuxedo when they’d gone through it while he’d been unconscious.

“They will not escape.” Thrall’s voice was confident, but then, Seine had never heard him be anything except confident. It was so easy to believe in anything he said.

“Then why–”

Patient exasperation, and Seine knew he was overstepping his bounds. “I don’t pay you to ask questions, General,” he said. “But if you must know, it is merely to give them hope. Batman will believe he has an edge, a tactical advantage. When they are recaptured, he will plan based on what he knows–the strength and numbers of the men, the layout of the building. He will invest time and energy into an escape plan that will undoubtedly fail.”

“Because you have constructed a false reality,” Seine finished. Yes, now he understood the need for this pseudo-facility. It served him well for training purposes with its movable walls. Rooms and corridors could be changed to fit almost any configuration. “Give a man hope, then take it away. Break him.”

“Oh, it will not break him.” Thrall’s voice sounded further away. “But it will wear him down. Slowly. Every person he cannot save, every mistake he makes will erode his confidence, his ability to reason, to act. He will question his decisions, his loyalties. Before it is done, he will be a shadow of the man he once was.”

Seine watched as Wayne grasped the boy’s hand, pulled him down a corridor strewn with fallen men, looking for a way out that didn’t exist. The boy shook off his hand and strode angrily ahead. Wayne reached for him, grabbing at the space where a yellow cape would’ve likely fluttered, but his hand closed on empty air. Seine smiled.

Thrall was right. Thrall was a genius.

Seine watched the narrow corridor begin to fill with blue haze. Wayne and the boy automatically reached into tuxedo pockets for items that weren’t there. He’d definitely be adopting those re-breathers for his own purposes. He’d never seen a design so compact. Apparently it was true–Batman was some kind of mechanical genius, or at least he had one working for him.

Haze filled the screen, and Seine saw Wayne sling the drooping boy over his shoulder and try to make his way out of the gas. Seine timed him, saw that Wayne lasted almost a full minute longer than anyone should’ve been able to resist the sleeping gas, even with trying to give a last breath to the boy. A touching, if somewhat feeble gesture. He’d be sure to report that to Dr. Messina–she needed something to work towards. Give that assistant of hers a higher purpose than making bad coffee and asking impertinent questions. The sleeping gas had worked well enough on rats and the human volunteers, but this was the first trial in an actual field situation. He wondered if they’d managed to eliminate the problem with spontaneous cardiac arrest in ten percent of cases. He’d lost a few good men that way–well, a few men, anyway. Soldiers were infinitely replaceable.

Seine clicked off the monitor. He had at least twenty minutes before the gas dissipated and another hour or so before he needed to have Wayne and the boy set up in the other facility. The other men were still sleeping off doses of the knock-out drug they’d been given earlier. They’d had to give the Osborn fellow three times the normal amount. Seine didn’t understand why, simply administered the drugs until he slumped into unconsciousness. He hoped the guy didn’t die before Thrall was ready for him. Maybe they should be conducting experiments on him.

Seine checked his watch. Luthor should be almost in full recovery by now, and the general had time to kill.

He knew exactly how he wanted to spend it.

***

Clark paced the small room in which he’d awakened. It reminded him of the rooms in a monastery he’d been to once with Bruce. That was the trip where Clark had realized Bruce was a fan of experiential learning, where if the blood-crazed men with bamboo poles didn’t kill you outright you’d probably learn a few good techniques for defending yourself. It was the first and last training session he let Bruce plan unsupervised.

The walls were a kind of soothing taupe, the colour of coffee with lots of milk, and everything in the room seemed to be carved from stone. The sink was formed from part of the wall and water miraculously appeared when he waved his hands underneath the spout. Some sort of sensor system. There was a shower hidden behind a curved stone wall, and a basket of fluffy rolled towels on the floor. Two polished stones could be used as seats. Even the toilet was smooth rock, and the bed was a wide carved slab jutting out from the wall. There was a soft woven mat laid upon it. Clark knew if he were Bruce he’d be able to identify the plant it was made from and probably where the damn thing was harvested, but he wasn’t Bruce and all Batman’s lessons on meditation and centring oneself were doing absolutely no good right now.

He checked his appearance in the round mirror above the sink. He looked tired and pale. For someone who’d never really been sick, who didn’t _get_ sick, it was disconcerting, and Clark hung one of the beige towels over the mirror to hide the reflective glow from his collar. He was beginning to hate the colour green.

“Okay, Clark,” he said to himself. “Think like Bruce. Lex is in trouble, you don’t know where they’ve taken the others, and you don’t have any powers. What do you do?”

The silence offered no answer.

“First, stop talking to yourself,” Clark muttered out loud, examining the large window opposite the steel door. There were heavy Venetian blinds covering it–blinds that appeared to be sealed between the panes of glass. Clark focussed his x-ray vision. It seemed the least affected by the Kryptonite collar, but he couldn’t see through the blinds no matter how hard he tried. Lead-lined, he assumed. And lead in the walls as well. Someone knew them entirely too well.

He lay on the stone bed and stared at the ceiling. The feeling of weakness was becoming routine, as was the nausea that had settled in the bottom of his stomach and appeared to be a permanent part of his new condition. He rubbed a hand absently against his mid-section and thought of Lex.

Lex was still alive. General Seine had told him so.

“Yeah, and crazy scar-faced generals who kidnap and torture you for fun never lie.”

Sometimes Clark wished he could put a gag around his inner voice. He pushed down his fear and anger, tried to block out the thoughts of what Seine might do to Lex, and pictured Lex smiling at him, that devious “I’m going to take over the world” look that usually meant he’d found a new (hideously expensive) toy or some way to annoy Bruce. That whole underwear fiasco still made Clark grin.

In spite of everything, he found himself laughing and the sound of it echoing in the stone room made him feel remarkably better. He had a good life. He thought of Lex teaching Dick to drive a stick-shift sports car without telling Bruce; Lex hunched over a table in the lab like some kind of mad scientist; Dick swinging from the rafters in the barn like he was on a circus trapeze; the first time Clark ever managed to land a jiu jitsu kick on Bruce. He’d broken two of Bruce’s ribs, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen the guy look more proud. Clark was convinced Bruce was at least a little bit insane.

Clark smiled at the memories. His life was so bizarre. The people in it even more so, but he was so grateful to have them.

He didn’t know Harry or Peter at all, but they were part of this too. Oh, Harry’d been in stories from Excelsior–the few Lex would actually tell, which Clark had always suspected were cleaned up for his benefit. He had a pretty good idea what Bruce and Lex were like in high school, and there was nothing he could do to change it. Clark loved Lex, and Lex loved him. And Bruce ... well, he would always complicate matters just by being there, but Clark knew the man well enough to know whatever he might still feel for Lex, he wouldn’t act on it.

He wouldn’t even act on his feelings for Dick and those were so obvious even Clark had noticed. And Dick’s feelings were even less subtle. Those two needed to be locked in a room together and told to smarten up. Clark knew Dick had made progress emotionally–Bruce trusted him more than anyone except maybe Lex and Alfred. Clark had no illusions about where he placed on the trust scale. Bruce had grown to accept him in spite of being an alien, but if it came down to it, his loyalties were more on the human than the super-human side of things. Clark even took a certain amount of comfort from knowing Bruce would keep him in check. If it was ever necessary.

His thoughts returned to Bruce and Dick. Clark had seen Bruce be affectionate, even downright playful with Dick, but there was always something holding him back from the relationship, even though Dick had been of age for some time now. Clark blushed–he and Lex had been together since he was seventeen, but then again, Lex hadn’t been responsible for him. That complicated everything, at least in Bruce’s mind. Maybe when they got out of this, he’d try to talk to Bruce about it.

The thought of that conversation made him cringe inwardly. Maybe he’d suggest Lex talk to Bruce about it.

Much better.

He closed his eyes and imagined he was flying away from here, over the clouds with Lex in his arms. It was a good dream, and for the first time since this ordeal had begun, he slept naturally and peacefully.

***

Alfred checked and re-checked his findings. Cell phones, disconnected. Mobile tracking devices, destroyed. Bat-tracers sewn in the lining of Master Dick and Bruce’s tuxedos, off-line. Last recorded location was the Hotel New York. No response to any transmission on any emergency frequency they normally used, and absolutely no communication from any of them.

Lex’s secretary confirmed that he was _in communicado_ , but admitted it was strange there’d been no contact whatsoever. He was notorious for not being able to go twenty-four hours without checking in. Alfred thanked her and advised her to contact him immediately should she receive any information regarding his whereabouts. He cautioned her not to speak to anyone about the matter. He’d known Elizabeth for a number of years now, and he trusted her to keep her own counsel.

As Jonathan Kent had suggested, the hotel staff was no help whatsoever. He was able to ascertain that all belongings had been removed from the hotel rooms, yet there was no sign of break-in or robbery. Alfred had talked to the desk clerk himself, but there was nothing suspicious to report. The rooms were paid in advance with no formal check-out required, and billionaire playboys who had a reputation for changing their plans suddenly were apparently no cause for alarm. A certain measure of caution was required from Alfred given the questions he was asking–no need to alert the authorities unless absolutely necessary, and truthfully, if authorities needed to be contacted, Alfred would be making a very long distance call.

Commissioner Gordon had not heard from either Bruce Wayne or Batman–Alfred placed those calls with two very different sets of voices and identities. Even Miss Lane seemed puzzled at Superman’s lack of appearance at a daring daylight robbery of plutonium in Metropolis that morning, or at least that’s what Alfred surmised from reading _The Daily Planet_ ’s afternoon edition.

He made a few discreet phone calls, talked to some old sources from his espionage days, but there was no word concerning any of the four young men. As the day wore on and night started to fall in Gotham, Alfred became more and more certain something was extraordinarily wrong.

He picked up the phone and dialled.

***

“Peter? Harry? Are you boys home?”

Peter’s Aunt May knocked loudly on the door. Normally she wouldn’t come all this way into the city to see them, but there’d been no answer when she called and she simply had a bad feeling about things. She’d lived long enough to trust her gut instincts. So she’d taken the train, then caught the cross-town bus. She’d made sure she’d gotten the right transfer slip, and the driver had been kind and dropped her off a block closer than the stop.

Now she was standing in the hallway outside the boys’ apartment–grateful, not for the first time, that Harry didn’t mind sharing his good fortune with Peter–and wondering if they’d mind if she let herself in and made a cup of tea. It’d been a long way to come, and she didn’t have the energy she used to have. Since Ben had died, she felt old so much more of the time. Old and worn out.

She snapped open her black handbag and rooted around for the extra key Peter had given her. It was pinned, just where she’d left it so she wouldn’t forget, to the inside pocket in the centre–the one that was too deep to be much use, where she was forever losing her glasses and those subway tokens that seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with every year. It was almost time to clean out her purse again.

The key slid easily into the lock and she pushed the door open, calling the boys’ names again. The apartment was silent, full of the casual messiness of young men–Peter’s bicycle leaning in the corner, a week’s worth of newspapers spread across the coffee table, a half-done crossword puzzle on top. She shrugged off her shawl and unpinned her hat, setting both neatly on the small table beside the entrance. A folded invitation caught her attention.

“Excelsior Preparatory School for Boys Alumni Fund-raiser.” Aunt May smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes, that was last night. I do hope Harry managed to convince Peter to go with him. Such a fashionable affair at the Hotel New York and all, and Peter does look so nice in that tuxedo. He needs to relax more, poor boy. He works too hard.”

She dropped the invitation on the table and went into the kitchen, filling the kettle with cold water and setting it to boil. The sink was full of dirty dishes, and Aunt May sighed and shook her head. Boys. Well, they likely wouldn’t mind if she tidied up a little, and besides they were both working so much lately, Peter juggling school and assignments with _The Daily Bugle_ and Harry stepping into his father’s footsteps at the head of OsCorp. Such big shoes to fill, too.

The plug slipped neatly into the drain and a squirt of dishwashing liquid was all that was needed to fill the air with a fresh clean scent. She filled the sink, plunging her hands into the warm soapy water, and had the dishes out of the way before the tea had steeped.

“Maybe I’ll just have a look at that crossword while I wait,” she said, carrying her tea out to the living room. She looked once at the clock, unsure where the boys could be so late on a Saturday afternoon, but she would wait a while longer. She picked up a pen and looked at the first definition. A nine-letter word for purple.

“Why don’t they just say purple?” she said to no one in particular.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

***

“Martha, come quick,” Jonathan called from the living room. He heard the sound of running feet, and then his wife’s worried face appeared around the corner. “It’s Clark. On TV,” he said excitedly. The six o’clock news had just come on with a breaking story.

“Well, turn it up!” Martha said, not taking her eyes from the screen. There were shots from what looked like a security camera showing Superman knocking out two would-be bank robbers. Once Jonathan found the right remote, the voice-over confirmed it. At the end of the report, Superman soared into the air, one fist clenched at the end of an outstretched arm, red cape fluttering behind him. The expression on his face was fierce and proud, a single lock of dark hair curling against his forehead.

Jonathan clicked off the set and looked at Martha triumphantly. “See, he’s just fine.”

Martha just stared at him. “That’s not Clark.”

“What do you mean that’s not Clark?”

Jonathan looked at her suspiciously. She’d been out of her head with worry all day and now they had clear and irrefutable proof in front of their eyes that Clark was fine, she wouldn’t believe it. Damned if he’d ever be able to figure out women and their female intuition.

“Jonathan Kent, are you telling me you can’t recognize an imposter when you see one?”

“Of course I can.”

Except Jonathan didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. It looked like Clark on the television. An imposter? He’d never really thought about the possibility before, and he wasn’t entirely certain how one would prepare for such a thing. He’d always assumed he’d just know Clark anywhere, or if he suddenly got split in two through some bizarre Kryptonite experiment, he’d just ask him tricky questions only Clark would know, like how long they’d had Bessie or why they’d named the loft the Fortress of Solitude.

Jonathan could tell Martha wasn’t buying his answer for a minute. She was standing with arms folded across her chest, looking every bit like some ancient shield maiden with a plate in one hand and a dishtowel in the other. Christ, there were times he thought it must be easier to be a homosexual–at least Clark and Lex never had to deal with trying to figure out the opposite sex.

“Jonathan.”

“Okay, okay, give me a minute.” He thought back to the video-tape, tried to think of what might be out of place. It felt too much like those “what’s wrong with this picture” games in the old _Saturday Evening Post_. He’d never been any good at noticing the parrot had two tail feathers in this picture and three in that one. And it hadn’t seemed all that important, really.

“Our son is missing, probably in danger, and you can’t even tell the difference?” Martha’s voice was reaching an unnatural pitch.

Jonathan wouldn’t have been surprised if the plate had come hurtling towards his head. Instead, Martha was rubbing the edge of the plate with her dishtowel hard enough to make it squeak, and Jonathan didn’t know if the pattern of small yellow flowers was meant to withstand that kind of sustained rubbing. He stood and took the dish from her hand, putting his arms around her.

“Don’t you dare try to placate me,” Martha started, but she softened into his hug. Jonathan could hear the fear in her voice.

“The curl,” Jonathan said suddenly. “He stopped wearing the curl.”

“No, everyone loves the curl,” she mumbled into his shoulder, but her anger seemed to have been replaced by anxiety. Jonathan was pretty sure Lex didn’t love the curl, but he wasn’t about to bring that up at this point. Think, he told himself. Think.

“The fist, Jonathan. Bruce told him to fly with an open hand rather than a fist, said it would make him seem less threatening.”

“ _Bruce_ told him that?”

“You know Bruce. He’s such a dear young man, and he’s taught Clark a lot about fitting in.”

Yeah, Jonathan thought, because it wouldn’t do to have his son look silly on his first day as a costumed superhero, and if anyone should be giving lessons on how to look less threatening, it was certainly a man who spent his nights fighting crime while dressed as a giant bat. Jonathan shook his head. He’d have to point out the irony to Bruce–the man was losing his edge if Martha thought he was a “dear young man,” although he suspected Bruce would rather like it. Martha seemed to be every orphan’s unofficial mother. Which was just fine. But sometimes Jonathan felt their life was like something out of one of those Stephen King novels he’d taken out of the library a few summers ago. Damn thing had given him the willies.

“Maybe he just forgot and made a fist,” Jonathan offered.

“He did _not_ forget.” The fierceness was back in Martha’s voice. “That was _not_ my son, and I damn well want some kind of explanation.”

Jonathan knew that was his cue to do something, although he wasn’t sure what he could do.

“I’ll phone Alfred,” he said. If nothing else, it would buy him a little time. And if he was very lucky, the old gent would have some kind of answer that would keep him in Martha’s good graces.

At the moment that didn’t seem likely.

***

Peter stripped off the Spider-man costume. It felt good to take the damn thing off, and there was really no point to wearing it now. These people knew who he was, seemed to know everything about him.

He slipped on the cotton pants and tunic they’d left him. They were both baggy on him, but Peter knew he was a small guy, and besides he liked things loose. The suit was tight enough to make him never want to wear anything but baggy jeans ever again.

Just for the hell of it, he flexed his wrists towards the large screened window at the end of the room. Nothing. Not even a tiny squirt. He’d never quite figured out the science of how the webbing was created in his body, but whenever he’d needed it, it had appeared. He’d gotten used to having special powers. It felt strange to suddenly feel normal again. Whatever they’d injected into him had dulled his spider senses and blocked his abilities. Strength, speed, agility all seemed back to normal, which for Peter had always meant below average. He was the science nerd whose idea of weight-lifting was signing out the maximum allowance of books from the library. It wasn’t an easy thing to go back to.

He stretched out on the stone bed. It was more comfortable than it looked, and he couldn’t quite figure out what this change of venue meant. The room had all the amenities of a decent hotel–bathroom, shower, bed. There were towels and a change of clothes, and Peter’d been happy to find a bowl of fruit as well. He’d eaten half of it before he’d realized it might be poisoned or drugged, but as he was suffering no ill effects, he decided not to worry about it. Besides, he didn’t get the impression these people wanted to kill them. If that was the case, they’d have done it already.

No, this General Seine and whoever he was working for wanted them for something else. Something big, and all of them had a role to play. Even Harry.

Peter lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Harry. He hadn’t wanted things to come out like this, would’ve preferred to tell him in his own way and his own time about what had happened with Mr. Osborn. In retrospect, he should’ve told Harry the whole story right after the funeral, but Harry had been distraught and there’d been all the financial stuff to deal with. Then every time Harry had looked at him with those dark eyes and thanked him for being there, being a friend, Peter had swallowed his confession and decided the truth could wait. He’d wanted to keep Harry close to him for as long as he possibly could.

Truth be told, he just wanted Harry. He wanted his best friend back, even if there could never be anything more. He wasn’t going to hold out hope that Harry could ever forgive him, but maybe he’d be able to see Peter hadn’t meant for it to happen. If he could’ve saved Norman Osborn, even from himself, he would have. He would’ve done anything to spare Harry that kind of pain.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered to the ceiling.

***

“I do apologize, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said. “I didn’t anticipate the League would take action so expeditiously.”

“So you know that wasn’t Clark on television.”

Mr. Kent still sounded somewhat uncertain, and Alfred thought he heard something that sounded vaguely like “I told you so” in the background. Alfred’s faith in Mrs. Kent was once again proven correct. He’d always known she was a formidable woman.

“Yes. That was my doing, I’m afraid. J’onn Jonnz thought it would be best to have Superman and Batman make appearances, even if Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne are currently missing. Especially so.”

“The Martian? He’s the shape-shifter, isn’t he?”

Mr. Kent’s voice evinced a note of surprise that there was a shape-shifting telepathic Martian living on the planet, yet apparently he had no trouble accepting a Kryptonian child found in a field on the day of a meteor shower. It was a most interesting phenomenon.

“Yes, sir. He’s able to mimic Superman’s appearance and powers adequately enough to fool most people.”

“Except he missed that fist thing,” Jonathan said loudly, as if speaking for someone else’s benefit.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Kent?”

“Never mind, Alfred. Have you heard anything at all?”

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t been able to contact any of our young gentlemen and the reports regarding the robbery at last night’s event are contradictory to say the very least.”

“Wait, there was a robbery? Was that what the fuss was at the hotel?”

“Apparently.” Alfred glanced out the study window as a pair of headlights circled up the driveway. Perhaps this was news. “Mr. Kent, someone’s just driven up to the manor. I suspect it’s in relation to the Masters’ disappearance. May I call you later?”

“Sure,” Mr. Kent said, obviously reluctant to sever any connection to information about his son. “You call any time, Alfred. As soon as you hear anything, don’t worry about the time. Just call.”

For a man who rose with the sun, Alfred knew a willingness to sacrifice sleep was a sure sign of his worry.

“I assure you I will phone the moment I hear anything, Mr. Kent.”

Alfred hung up the phone, straightened his tie, and proceeded towards the front door. He hoped his guest would be able to shed some light on the strange disappearances.

***

“Rather a maudlin crew, aren’t they?”

Dr. Messina looked up from her notes at the sound of her assistant’s voice. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

“The heroes.” Trey pointed to the five sets of monitors showing five identical rooms. “They’re all staring at the walls or the ceiling, and mostly talking to themselves.”

Dr. Messina shot him a disdainful look. Trey was beginning to grate on her nerves, and if he wasn’t a damn fine chemist and a decent lay she would’ve gotten rid of him months ago.

“Talking to oneself is not necessarily an unhealthy response to stress.”

“I know that, but this guy,” Trey tapped the fifth monitor where a dark-haired man in a dishevelled tuxedo was pacing and moving his lips, “this guy’s been carrying on a conversation with his mirror for the last twenty minutes. I thought he was just your classic narcissist, so I popped in the earpiece, and whoa ... crazy!” He made a circular motion around his ear

She didn’t like the word crazy. It was too close to unconventional. Eccentric. Radical. All things her colleagues had termed her experiments when she’d been let go from Metropolis University’s biomedical research unit.

“I don’t like–”

“Crazy, right.” Trey was beginning to know her obsessions and issues a little too well. She didn’t know how she felt about that. “But there’s no other word for him, Deb. Insane. Nuts. Bonkers. Schizo. Bat-shit crazy!”

Dr. Messina glared at the use of her name, especially in such a familiar form, and decided Trey was going to be putting in some overtime in the lab. Preferably cleaning out the rat cages. He needed to remember who was running the show and who was the assistant, and he needed to revisit the clinical definitions of schizophrenic, narcissistic, and insane. An undergrad degree in Psychology from Central City U obviously wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. At least he’d done his graduate work at a real school.

She tugged off her heavy-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes. This job was taking its toll. She loved her work, but she was tired, and she just couldn’t attract top quality research assistants working for a criminal mastermind. The pay was great and the benefits were adequate, but recruitment was a bitch. She’d found Trey at a rave one night, strung out on a methamphetamine cocktail and babbling about strange glowing rocks in Smallville. Naturally, she’d taken him home, but she couldn’t spend all her time trolling bars looking for disillusioned, but brilliant graduate students.

She recognized the heavy footfall of General Seine entering the lab. He peered at the bank of monitors.

“All the animals tucked safely into their cages?”

“You can see for yourself,” Dr. Messina said, not looking up..

“And my favourite lab rat?”

She consulted the three monitors devoted to Lex Luthor’s condition. The Kryptonite-infused injections were working better than even she had predicted. His already accelerated healing rate increased exponentially when additional injections of Kryptonite were applied. There was only minor bruising and some swelling to indicate the two bullet wounds inflicted less than twenty-four hours ago, and the external cuts and bruises from this afternoon’s beating had almost completely disappeared with no apparent physical trauma. She wasn’t sure about Luthor’s mental state, but that wasn’t exactly what she was being paid to measure.

“I’d like to let him rest overnight, give his body a chance to recuperate. We’ve given him a tremendous amount of the K-12 infusions today, and I’m not sure what the long-term effects of that might be on his respiratory or nervous systems. He had a childhood history of asthma prior to the meteor event,” Dr. Messina said, scanning a chart for confirmation, “and I’d rather not risk a setback when things are working so beautifully. His kidneys need time to adjust to the increased Kryptonite in his system as well.”

General Seine let out a frustrated sound, slapping his riding crop against his thigh. It was obvious he didn’t care about the state of Luthor’s kidneys.

“You’re certain?”

“Sorry to spoil your fun, General, but come back in the morning. I’ll have him ready for you then.”

“Make sure you do,” he said, shooting one last longing glance at the monitors. He turned and disappeared through the glass doors of the lab.

“Yeah, and Mirror Boy’s not the only one who’s crazy,” Trey muttered, tearing off small scallops around the edge of his Styrofoam cup.

“Pardon?” Dr. Messina’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Nothing.” Trey deposited his torn cup in the trash and shuffled towards the coffee maker. “I’m going to make a fresh pot. Want some?”

“Yeah, why not,” she said. It hadn’t killed her yet, and she still had a long night ahead.

***

Aunt May woke to a dark apartment and the jarring sound of ringing.

“Ben, will you get that, dear?” she said sleepily, until she realized Ben was gone and she was alone in Peter’s apartment. She shook herself and reached for a lamp. The clock read 8:27.

“Oh, dear, it gets dark early these days,” she murmured. Then she remembered the telephone. She listened, but there was no sound.

“I hope that wasn’t Peter.”

She eased off the couch, the not-quite-done crossword puzzle sliding onto the floor. The strain in her back and down her legs was unavoidable as she pent to pick up the puzzle. She remembered when she hadn’t known the meaning of the word ache. But that was many years ago.

The sound of the doorbell startled her, a hand flying to her heart in surprise. She peered out the peephole. Two young gentlemen stood there in long trench coats.

“Who is it?”

“Ma’am? New York City Police Department. We’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

She started to unhook the chain lock, terrified something had happened to Peter. Or Harry. Oh my, what would she do if something had happened to the boys? She was about to turn the deadbolt when her New York sense of caution kicked in.

“How do I know you’re really police officers?” she asked suspiciously.

A pleasant chuckle from the other side of the door. “I’m sliding my badge under the door, ma’am. I’m Officer Carson. My partner is Officer Stanislovski.”

Aunt May bent down to examine the identification pushed under the door. Officer Sean Carson was apparently 32 years of age, 6 feet 2 inches in height, and weighed 185 pounds. He had dark curly hair and glasses.

“I don’t see you wearing glasses, Officer Carson,” she said.

“I’ve got my contacts in today, ma’am.”

The young man looked straight at the peephole and Aunt May tried to assess if the description was accurate. He did seem quite tall, but then again, everyone seemed quite tall to her.

“How do I know this is real?”

She could hear muttering from the other man. A bit shifty-looking, she thought, but Officer Carson seemed pleasant enough. “You’re welcome to phone the precinct and check, ma’am, but really we just need to ask you a few questions regarding a Mr. Harrison Osborn. We’ve been informed that this is his place of residence, is that correct?”

“Harry?” Aunt May opened the door. “Is he all right? Has something happened? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” She put a hand to her mouth, her heart racing.

Officer Carson took her arm and steered her towards the couch with a concerned look. “We don’t know that anything’s happened to him, ma’am. Just calm yourself. Richie, you want to get her a drink of water from the kitchen?”

The other man, the dark one, disappeared into the small kitchen and returned a moment later with a glass. Aunt May took it gratefully and sipped.

“Now,” Officer Carson said, taking a seat beside her. He looked her over carefully before asking, “Are you Mr. Osborn’s ... mother?”

Aunt May laughed and patted the young man’s arm. He had a warm, boyish face and nice blue eyes. Ben had blue eyes like that. “No, young man. Harry’s the same age as my great-nephew. They share this apartment, you know.”

“Peter Parker,” Officer Stanislovski volunteered, flipping open a small notebook. “That right, ma’am?”

She surveyed the officer before answering. He was swarthy and dark, with eyes black as her handbag. “Are you Russian?”

“Half,” the officer said, nodding. “My mother was Lebanese. Peter Parker’s your nephew, ma’am?”

“Yes. And you call me Aunt May. Everyone else does.”

“All right, Aunt May,” Carson said. “Do you know where Harry is? Or Peter?”

“Why, no. I was just sitting here waiting for them to come home. I’d taken the train into town, and it’s such an awful long way to come–” She caught the patient look in their eyes. “Oh, you don’t want to hear about my day, but I was expecting them to be home and I must’ve dozed off. I can’t imagine what’s keeping them.”

“This is a very nice apartment for two young guys. Was Harry having any financial difficulties that you’re aware of?” Officer Stanislovski was walking around the apartment, making notes in his little pad.

“Harry? Financial difficulties?” Aunt May laughed. “Obviously you’re too busy policing to keep up with the news. Harry inherited his father’s company a little while ago. Sad thing his father passing on like that. So suddenly too.”

The officers exchanged looks, and Aunt May realized they misunderstood. “Now, Harry wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a sweet, sensitive boy.”

“They always are,” Stanislovski muttered.

“I don’t think I like your tone, officer. You don’t even know Harry.” The officer had the grace to look apologetic. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly what this is about.”

She turned to them expectantly and waited.

***

“Well, I do appreciate you driving all the way out here, Commissioner Gordon,” Alfred said, “but Master Bruce has not yet returned home from New York.”

“I know, Alfred. I need to speak with you about that. Can we go into the study?”

“Of course, sir.”

Gordon knew the way, and Alfred followed behind. The police commissioner stopped in front of the side table that held an assortment of liquors and looked at the bottles with open longing.

“Please help yourself, Commissioner,” Alfred said, noting the man’s haggard look. It appeared he’d already had a long night. “I’m certain Master Bruce would approve.”

“Thanks.” He poured himself a double scotch and soda, and settled on the edge of the leather couch. “Please sit, Alfred. I can’t talk while you’re hovering. Makes me feel like you’re about to run off to make me tea or some such thing.”

“Would you like a cup of–”

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant.” Gordon waved at Alfred to sit. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I’ve known you and Bruce a long time, and I guess this is getting to me too. You know he’s disappeared, I take it. Dick, too.”

Alfred nodded, and Gordon took a drink. “I guess it shouldn’t surprise me you’d know, Alfred. Maybe together we can make sense of this. I just can’t make hide nor hair of the information coming out of New York, and it’s driving me crazy. Been on the phone most of the day and can’t get a straight answer out of anyone, even the people who’d give me one if they had it. None of the witnesses even remember being at the Excelsior fund-raiser, including the people who organized the damn thing, but they’ve got a shot up banquet room with a half-caved in roof, enough bullet holes to keep the lab boys busy for a year, and several cases of suspicious champagne bottles. Plus twenty-seven people in hospital and at least two dead bodies.”

In spite of years of practise at never being caught unawares, Alfred felt his breath catch in his throat. He leaned back against the leather chair and forced himself to relax.

“It’s not them,” Gordon was quick to add. “I don’t know who it is, but it’s not them. But of the confirmed guest list–those we know were at the party, whether they remember it or not–we’ve still got five missing people.”

“Five,” Alfred repeated.

Gordon flipped open his notebook and read the names. “Besides Bruce and Dick, a _Daily Planet_ reporter named Clark Kent; Metropolis’s favourite son, Lex Luthor–and let me tell you, that’s causing more than a little stir; Lex Luthor is to Metropolis what ... well, I guess what Bruce Wayne is to Gotham.”

“How are they keeping it out of the paper?”

“It hasn’t been easy, let me tell you, but they’ve got the investigation sewn up tighter than Catwoman’s suit. They’ve been keeping everyone at the hotel until they can track down a lead on the five that are missing.”

“Who’s the fifth?”

Gordon consulted his notebook again. “A New Yorker named Harrison Osborn, inherited some industrial fortune a while back. Biological research. A lot of military contracts. Bruce, Luthor and Osborn are alum of the school. Between them they control three of the largest corporations in the entire country. Contacts in almost every technological field and level of government. And I guess Kent was probably there reporting on things.”

“Yes, probably,” Alfred agreed. Gordon wouldn’t pay much attention to Metropolis politics. He had too much to worry about right here in Gotham. It wasn’t Alfred’s place to call attention to Clark and Lex’s personal relationship. It was public knowledge, and Alfred assumed Gordon would make the connection sooner rather than later.

There were other connections, though, that none of them could afford to have made.

***

Lex had pretty much decided to give up the habit of opening his eyes. Every time he did, something bad happened. Somebody shot him or injected him or beat him to a bloody pulp. There appeared to only be two states of being–blissfully unconscious or ravaged with pain–and if he could’ve induced the first without assistance, he would’ve done so cheerfully.

He never thought he’d actually find himself wishing for some sort of head trauma. At least he was familiar with that sensation, the dull thud that rendered him unaware, followed by the headache upon waking, and the inevitable unbelievable explanations of what had happened while he’d been out.

Of course, he’d never believed Clark’s bullshit, but it had been interesting watching him make-up stuff during that first year or so they’d known each other, before Clark had decided to trust him. He still remembered Clark’s face when he realized Lex had been best friends with Batman since he was a kid and that having an alien boyfriend who could float really wasn’t that much different from a friend who routinely dressed like a bat and leapt off rooftops with nothing more than a piece of rope and a bat-shaped hook to break the fall.

He hoped they were all right. Both of them. All of them. He couldn’t help but linger on thoughts of Clark writhing beneath that damn Kryptonite collar, but he’d seen Bruce go down as well, heard Dick yelling for him. Dick had sounded so damn young. Hard to believe the kid was nineteen already. Bruce at nineteen had been stunningly handsome and too far away. Lex sometimes wondered if Bruce had stayed on the continent, what would’ve happened between them? Perhaps there was a good reason Bruce had left.

 _Do you remember when we were sixteen?_

Bruce could handle himself, but still ... Lex had known him too long to be able to imagine any kind of a life without him. Bruce had always been there, would always be there. It was the one thing he’d always been able to count on–even when he didn’t deserve it.

 _I remember._

But Bruce was undeniably human and therefore vulnerable, and Lex couldn’t pretend he didn’t worry more about Bruce doing the superhero gig than he ever worried about Clark. Kryptonite and magic weren’t in great supply, but Gotham seemed to be full of freaks wielding hallucinogenic drugs, bombs attached to riddles, and every kind of weapon known to man. Kevlar could only stop so many bullets, and even though Lex knew better than anyone, Bruce had always seemed a little bit larger than life. He was Batman, for God’s sake. He was a myth and a legend already, and sometimes Lex forgot he was also the guy who used to correct his physics homework and tie his bow-ties and jerk him off in the shower when they were sixteen.

 _We’re still alive._

Lex knew it was weird, but he took a certain amount of comfort from knowing he’d probably hurt Bruce worse than anyone else ever could. Bruce had survived their relationship and loved him still, so it only seemed logical he could survive anything else the world threw at him. High school had been hard on both of them and yet they’d come out of it together, friendship intact if a little more bruised and a whole lot wiser than when they’d been kids.

 _That was the deal._

Lex felt the tell-tale prick of a needle in his arm. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing regular. Bruce was not going to be happy when he found him with track marks like a common junkie. He didn’t think these people were prepared to deal with a pissed off Batman–hell, he’d do a lot to avoid dealing with Bruce when he was angry, but it was certainly amusing to watch when you weren’t the person being yelled at. Yeah, Lex had been on both sides, and he definitely preferred Bruce defending him to Bruce mad at him. Strange that both still made him feel unbelievably cherished.

There was a tingling sensation in his fingertips, and Lex felt sleep overtaking him. He’d managed to escape torture this time. Keeping his eyes closed was definitely a good plan. This way he only had to think about Clark and Bruce and all the good moments they’d had together. Both so beautiful and brave. He loved them. Both of them. He always would.

He drifted into sleep dreaming of dark-haired men whose eyes shifted from green to black and back again.

***

“People will swear they don’t remember being there, yet there’ve been reports all day of missing wallets, stolen jewellery, etcetera. Tell me, Alfred, what does that sound like to you?”

“Some sort of memory suppressant. Perhaps a soporific.”

Gordon grinned. “Yes, that’s what I thought too. Now Bruce and Luthor were in the same class. So was Osborn. That seems suspicious right there. Obviously there’s some connection. And they’re all filthy rich.” Gordon looked up, an apology clear on his face. “No offence, Alfred.”

“I’m sure the Master would understand, Commissioner.”

“The robbery could’ve been to cover up a kidnapping, but there’ve been no demands for ransom. Have there?” Gordon fixed Alfred with a steady eye.

“No, sir. I would’ve apprised you of the situation if that were the case.”

Gordon nodded and continued. “It’s just the damnedest thing. If it was just a robbery, it was the worst one in history. The crooks couldn’t have netted all that much, even with such a high-class crowd. And why cause a stir by shooting up the joint?”

“Except there was no stir, was there?” Alfred offered.

“You mean, the fact that nobody remembers anything? Yeah, it’s strange. They’re testing the champagne, but it’s going to take them some time to prove what I’m already pretty damn sure is true.”

“Drugged?”

Gordon nodded. “No one can remember the name of the catering company or the security people, and naturally all the records have disappeared along with the donations to the school.”

“Naturally.”

“If the motive was murder, it’s a pretty stupid way to do it. Too many witnesses. Too big a risk. No real pay off, and if the two deceased had been anyone really important, New York would’ve been all over it, but they’re as stymied as I am. Besides, they’ve got their hands full with some nut with metal arms who knocked over the New York mint tonight.”

“Detective Bullock is providing you with regular updates, I imagine?”

“Yeah, guess Harv thought he’d seen the end of capes when he moved to New York. Didn’t figure on having a whole new set to work with. The New York cops were bitching because Spider-man didn’t show up to help them out.” Gordon seemed to interpret Alfred’s concerned look as confusion. “Kind of like our Batman, but this guy dresses up in red pajamas and climbs straight up the walls. I’ve heard it’s quite something. Swings all over the damn place on webs he shoots out of his fingers.”

“That must make quite a mess,” Alfred said, his mind turning over the possibility that yet another hero seemed to be missing in action. He didn’t know much about Spider-man, but his absence was too much of a coincidence to be merely a coincidence. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

“It’s not bad.”

“What?” Alfred wondered if he’d missed something. He tried to remember what he knew about Harry Osborn. Was it possible Excelsior had produced another hero besides Batman?

“The mess. The webbing’s apparently biodegradable. Shrinks up to nothing in a matter of hours.”

“Well, that’s very ... environmentally conscious of ... Spider-man, was it?”

“Yeah.” Gordon finished his drink, and set the empty glass on the coffee table. He waved off Alfred’s offer of another.

“So do you have a theory, Commissioner?”

“Can’t say that I do. Wish I did. I discussed the situation with Batman just before I came out here–”

“You did?” Alfred interrupted, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, but Gordon merely read his reaction as the usual interest generated by the mention of Batman.

“Yeah, and he was off his game tonight too. Listened, but didn’t have much to say. Not that he ever really does,” Gordon said, “but there was just something off. He’s worried. I can tell. I always got the feeling he and Bruce were friends. At least a little bit. Guess it comes from being rescued more than a few times by him.”

Alfred nodded. He’d have to speak with J’onn about Jim Gordon. The man had known Batman for years, not to mention Bruce–they’d need to be particularly careful. “Did Batman say anything to you?”

“Just that he’d be in touch, and disappeared. Still don’t know how he does it so quietly.”

Alfred surmised that being able to shift through solid objects would likely make disappearing a good deal simpler. Gordon shook his head, and started to ease off the couch. Obviously he’d imparted the sum total of his information. At least it gave Alfred more than he’d known an hour ago, although who would’ve been able to subdue at least three heroes and completely suppress the disappearances was still a mystery to him.

“Well, I should get going, Alfred. In case I forget, when Bruce gets home, tell him thanks for the scotch. He always has the best stuff.” Gordon smiled and reached a hand out to squeeze Alfred’s shoulder. “Bruce and Dick have both been in sticky situations before. We’ll find out where they are, and we’ll bring them home. Safe and sound.”

“Thank you, Commissioner.”

Alfred walked with Commissioner Gordon to the main entrance.

“It’s never easy talking to family members about these sorts of things. I say, though, I don’t envy the Metropolis P.D..”

“Oh?” Alfred wasn’t sure what the commissioner meant.

“Would you want to tell Lionel Luthor his son is missing?” With that, Gordon turned and left, leaving Alfred to lean against the closed door and put a hand to his forehead.

 _Oh, dear God_ , Alfred thought. Lionel. He’d forgotten all about Lionel.


	4. Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The six main characters adjust to their situation. Family and friends continue to search in vain.

“What do you mean my son is missing?” Lionel Luthor swung around in his chair and confronted the pasty-faced police detective sitting across from him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Luthor. I know this must come as a terrible shock to you, but–”

“Nothing my son does shocks me anymore, officer.” Lionel pushed away from his glass desk and walked across to the mini bar and poured himself two fingers of scotch. “So tell me, what sort of trouble’s Lex gotten himself into this time?”

The officer stared open-mouthed, then seemed to collect himself and consulted his notebook. “Mr. Luthor was attending the Excelsior Prep Alumni event in New York–”

“Ah, Excelsior. A fortune expended on a less than stellar education. Disreputable friends. You can tell a lot about a man from the company he keeps, and Lex never made good choices.”

Lionel had actually liked the Wayne boy. He’d always been attractive, but headstrong and too smart for his own good. Damnably loyal. Far better than what Lex deserved in a friend, and Lionel had never gotten over Bruce going up against him to protect Lex and LexCorp. Oh, Lionel had gotten back with the allegations when Bruce had taken in that boy–Dick something or other–but it still irked him that Lex had declared himself independent from him. LexCorp was a titan of its own now, and LuthorCorp was having to settle for second place more and more often. Lionel didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, and Bruce Wayne’s hand in helping Lex break away just made him that much angrier. Those two seemed to think they were invincible together.

Lionel took a sip of his scotch. He had to admit they’d been right to protect their friendship from him, their relationship. Lionel would’ve made sure it ended. Lex was most malleable when he had no one around him, and there were ways Lionel could’ve dissuaded a too-loyal teenage boy from standing by Lex. Oh, he’d tried once or twice, but truthfully, he’d never believed the friendship was that serious. The Wayne boy had always seemed more sensible than to get involved with Lex. Apparently, Lionel had been wrong. About many things.

Lionel realized the officer had stopped speaking. “Well, go on.”

The man stammered uncomfortably. “Um, there was an incident at the alumni event–we’re still not certain of the details–but it appears that Mr. Luthor, um, your son, may have disappeared sometime during the evening. There are a small number of people we’ve been unable to locate, and he’s one of them.”

“What about his boy toy?” The officer’s face turned red. “Tall, dark hair, pretty. Lips that are only good for–well, never mind. Come on, man, you read the papers. Surely you know my son is as queer as a three dollar bill? I’m asking if his lover has disappeared too.”

The man nodded. “Clark Kent is also on the list of missing guests. Someone’s been sent out to Smallville to speak with his parents.”

Lionel smiled into his scotch. “Jonathan Kent hasn’t keeled over behind his plough yet? Pity. Martha’s a lovely woman. Much too good for that life.”

The officer appeared to be taking the high road, ignoring Lionel’s commentary. Well, Lionel didn’t really care what some police detective thought of him. He already owned a number of them, and wasn’t currently in the market for another. He didn’t have to be nice.

“Mr. Luthor, you haven’t heard anything from your son, have you? Haven’t been contacted by anyone?”

Lionel saw immediately what the man was getting at. “Kidnapping? No, no one’s asked me for money, and quite frankly, I’d expect the criminals of Metropolis to know better by now. I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Not for anyone. Not even my son.”

Maybe especially not his son, Lionel thought, considering Lex always seemed to manage to get out of the scrapes he got himself into. Usually with the help of that ridiculously clad Superman that Lionel still thought was connected with Clark in some way. The boy was too close to too many odd events for it to be a mere coincidence. But he’d never been able to prove it, and Lex and Clark had had very little to do with Lionel since moving to Metropolis. Lionel couldn’t say he really blamed them. He could see how having Lex institutionalized and trying to take over his company could put a damper on any father-son relationship.

The officer got to his feet. “Well, if you do hear anything, let us know immediately.”

“Perhaps you should alert Superman,” Lionel said somewhat snidely. “He seems to take more than a passing interest in my son’s whereabouts. Unless, of course, he’s disappeared as well.”

“No, he was in Metropolis this evening.”

Pity, Lionel thought. It would’ve been a golden opportunity to tie Superman and Clark Kent together. Maybe Clark had simply gotten tired of Lex, decided to do away with him. He certainly didn’t understand what a farm boy from Kansas saw in Lex–well, aside from the money, but Clark had that job at _The Daily Planet_ , as if that would balance things financially. Lionel chuckled, ignoring the confused glance from the officer. Lionel also didn’t understand why Jonathan and Martha hadn’t disowned the boy and his relationship with Lex. From what Lionel had heard, it appeared the Kents and Lex were one big happy family. But then again, he didn’t believe most of what he heard.

The officer paused with one hand on the door. “We’ll let you know if we hear anything. In the meantime, we’d advise you not to speak with the press until we have more information.”

Lionel nodded and started to wave the man out of the room. Then a thought struck him. “Who else is missing?”

The officer shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to discuss those details, Mr. Luthor. Please call us if you hear from your son or his partner. We’ll be in touch.”

As soon as the door closed, Lionel reached for the phone. He’d kept his beleaguered secretary late–he might as well get some work out of her for the money he was paying her. “Julia? I need you to find me the home phone number of Bruce Wayne in Gotham City.”

“Yes, sir,” came the tired reply. “Anything else, Mr. Luthor?”

“Yes.” Lionel spun his chair back towards the Metropolis skyline. In the distance he could see the LexCorp tower, it’s angular ‘L’ logo shining against the night. “Get me the names of the LexCorp board members and their phone numbers.”

He pressed the cut-off button on the intercom. If Lex had truly disappeared, it begged the question, who would be running LexCorp in his absence? Even if Clark had been around, the bumbling hayseed was a reporter not a CEO, and Lionel doubted Lex would’ve put him in charge even for a moment. He might be in love, but he wasn’t stupid. There were very few people Lex would trust his company to, and if Bruce Wayne was among the missing as well–a reasonable assumption given that Bruce and Lex seemed to attract trouble–then LexCorp might be ripe for the taking. It was a pleasant thought, and Lionel wondered who he should be thanking for this unexpected opportunity. Whoever it was would be getting one damn fine bouquet if things worked out as well as Lionel hoped.

He eased back in his chair and waited for Julia to buzz through with the information. He watched the city spread out below him, and began to plan for what he’d do once LexCorp became his.

***

Dick paced the small stone room restlessly. He’d woken up here with no sign of Bruce or anyone else, and escape didn’t appear to be an option. He’d gone over the place, just as Bruce had taught him, but there appeared to be no weaknesses to be exploited, no obvious escape points. The window was shatterproof, the rest of the furniture moulded as part of the stone decor. The clothes appeared to be free from transmitters and the food didn’t seem to be drugged, but still, Dick didn’t want to take any chances. He held out as long as he could until the growling in his stomach overtook his judgment and he helped himself to a banana. Maybe he could use the peel to create a diversion.

“Yeah, and maybe that’s the lamest idea ever,” Dick said aloud.

He knew the place was likely bugged, although he hadn’t found any obvious plants, but he couldn’t help himself. Talking through things had always been his way of dealing, and he knew it drove Bruce a little nuts sometimes, but Bruce always let him. Encouraged him even. Talking wasn’t Bruce’s style, wasn’t Batman’s, but it was Dick’s and Robin’s and Bruce had always seemed okay with that.

Dick felt an ache inside when he thought about Bruce. One moment they’d been kissing, really kissing, Bruce holding him and pressing against him, letting his tongue explore Dick’s mouth. He could still feel the thrill of excitement when Bruce started to give back, when his movements not only echoed Dick’s, but took control and showed him what to do. Dick had wanted it to happen for so long, and he wasn’t disappointed.

God, the man was strong. Passionate. When Bruce had kissed him, Dick felt his entire body come alive.

Except Bruce had used him to distract the guards, and even if the Robin part of his brain knew it was a smart thing to do, he still resented it. He didn’t actually think Bruce was unfeeling enough to use him only as a diversion–more likely he’d simply turned the situation into a strategic advantage, but it didn’t make it any easier knowing that. A distraction was still a distraction, and Dick had to face the fact that while Bruce had been kissing him, he’d also been determining how best to take down the eight men outside their door. It wasn’t a very romantic thought.

“Yeah, and Bruce is such a romantic,” Dick muttered.

He didn’t think Bruce had a romantic bone in his body, but that wasn’t even a problem. He didn’t need hearts and flowers and all that crap that women expected. All he needed was Bruce–present, in the moment, not thinking about other things, just touching him, wanting him. That’s all. It shouldn’t have been that difficult. He knew Bruce loved him. Had known it since the first time he’d let Dick comfort him, allowed the touch and the affection and the care. Allowed it without a struggle despite whatever internal war he might’ve been waging.

Dick had only ever seen Bruce take comfort from two people. Alfred could offer a soothing hand, advice, a cup of tea. Bruce would listen, would go back to being a kid for a moment, letting Alfred talk some sense into him, and then he’d steel himself for whatever he thought he had to do and ignore most of Alfred’s advice. But he’d be more careful than usual, knowing Alfred didn’t like to stitch him up, didn’t like to see him hurt and bloody.

And then there was Lex. Dick only vaguely remembered him from the night of the circus. He’d been a young bald man in a long dark coat, hovering near Bruce, looking at them both with a strange sad look Dick didn’t really understand at the time. He’d only been able to concentrate on his parents, dead at his feet. Batman had been there, a strong hand on his shoulder, telling him their killer would be brought to justice, and then in what seemed like no time at all, Bruce had stood behind him, same strong hand on his shoulder, promising to look after him, give him a home, help him through this ordeal. Dick remembered nodding and letting everyone around him–police, circus people, the horrified crowd–fade into the background. His only connection to the world had been Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, Bruce’s deep voice telling him he’d survive, even if he didn’t want to. It had been enough. They’d had a connection from that very first moment.

That night and so many times since then, Dick had seen a change come over Bruce when Lex walked into the room. He seemed to soften somehow, as if Lex was the one person who didn’t need him to be Batman, and maybe that was because Lex had been there almost from the beginning. Bruce didn’t talk about their friendship much, but when Lex was around he was more relaxed, more playful, and Lex got away with murder. The first time Dick had seen Lex ruffle Bruce’s hair, he’d thought Lex was going to lose a limb. He’d almost fallen out of his chair when Bruce had simply smiled affectionately at him and gone back to the book he was reading while Lex bounced around the room tinkering at the piano, poking at the fire, and complaining about Bruce’s taste in literature.

Dick wanted that same playful, relaxed relationship. The passion he knew was simmering just under the surface. Bruce was nowhere near the cold, unfeeling man his enemies suspected him to be. He was more like a volcano, and Dick simply had to find a way to get him to release those feelings without destroying them both.

He was positive he could do it. He loved Bruce, and Bruce loved him. What more did they need?

***

Bruce opened his eyes to pain and absence. His wrist was aching, his lungs still burning from whatever gas they’d used on them, and he could almost feel the last press of Dick’s lips against his as he’d tried to give him a few extra moments of consciousness by sharing his own breath. It had been a losing battle, and Bruce had known it.

There were things that didn’t make sense. The opposing forces were too weak, the corridors too randomly drawn. They didn’t match with the ordered mind of someone like General Seine. Bruce knew those soldiers hadn’t been trained by the man who snapped his wrist bone and showed no emotion while doing it. No, it had been a test of some sort–to see what he would do. Perhaps to give him a false impression of the strength of what they were up against. It was an interesting ploy, and one which would work on most people.

But then again, Bruce wasn’t most people.

He took stock of the room, examined every inch of it from every possible angle, determining that they’d most likely been moved to a different facility, or at least a different part of the original building. When he’d finished his inspection, he went through a variety of routines to keep his body sharp. Tai chi, jiu jitsu, yoga, sit-ups and push-ups, and finally meditation. He pushed everything out of his mind’s eye–pushed aside his worry about Lex, his need to get them out of this situation, the pain in his body. He emptied his thoughts like water from a pitcher, acknowledging each one, then letting it slip away. The only one that wouldn’t go was Dick. Dick’s face with sweetly swollen lips, Dick’s blue eyes full of anger and hurt, Dick’s voice accusing: “you used me as a distraction?”

“No,” Bruce murmured involuntarily. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

Bruce imagined Dick’s warm solid weight against him, the eager way he touched him and kissed him, the way he moaned softly into Bruce’s mouth. It was sweeter than anything Bruce had experienced in a long time.

“You used me,” dream-Dick’s voice whispered with obvious pain.

“No,” Bruce said again, his eyes snapping open. He got to his feet. Perhaps he’d leave meditation for later. Right now, he wanted to hit something. Hard.

He examined the glass of the large window. Experimentally, he gave it a kick. It trembled, the shatterproof plexiglass somewhat more flexible than regular glass. He kicked it again. A pleasing vibration echoed through his leg, tingling through his muscles. The glass continued to ripple without any sign of weakening.

Bruce knew it was unlikely he’d shatter the window, but at least he was equally unlikely to hurt himself kicking it repeatedly. And maybe, just maybe, he’d work out a little of his excess energy. Maybe then, he’d be able to think clearly.

He kicked the glass again.

***

Alfred hung up the phone. Mr. Kent had confirmed that the Metropolis police had no additional information to impart, and Commissioner Gordon had, in fact, been more forthcoming with details than anyone else. Alfred had assured Mr. Kent he was doing his best to ascertain the boys’ whereabouts, and in the meantime, the Justice League would keep an eye on the three cities, with J’onn making appearances when necessary.

J’onn was particularly intrigued with the possibility of trying out this Spider-man role in New York. Really, Alfred thought, the Martian might have been auditioning for Broadway. He seemed entirely too excited about taking on these other roles. But then again, Alfred’s first love had always been the theatre, so he could hardly blame the Martian for succumbing to its lure.

It was turning out to be a far later night than Alfred liked. Even with Master Bruce’s usual uncivilized hours, Alfred felt the need to maintain a more or less regular schedule of his own. It certainly wouldn’t do if someone dropped by the manor at eight in the morning and found them all a-bed. There were appearances to be maintained and even if billionaires could sleep til noon, English butlers could not.

He was just turning out the lights in the study when the phone rang again. His heart skipped a beat as he hoped against hope it was good news, or perhaps the master himself. He picked up the phone.

“Wayne Manor.”

“Ah, Mr. Pennyworth,” a smooth voice said. “Is the master of the house at home?”

Alfred swallowed his disappointment. “Master Bruce is away at the moment. Might I assist you?”

A delighted chuckle, and Alfred realized he knew the man on the other end of the phone. He supposed he should’ve been expecting this call.

“Alfred, it seems that our boys have disappeared. Interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Interesting would not be the word I would use, Mr. Luthor,” Alfred returned, trying to keep from hanging up on the man and ripping the phone cord out of the wall. Perhaps he would learn something of use if he could just be patient, but he detested Lex’s father with a depth he usually only reserved for the most foul of villains. Considering Lionel Luthor’s character, it was really no surprise.

Lionel wasn’t even listening to him. “Now, if they were still teenagers, I’d say they’d probably run off together and we shouldn’t worry, but now that they’re grown men with other, shall we say, commitments ... that explanation is less likely.”

“I have the same information you have, Mr. Luthor.”

“And how is Bruce’s ... ah, youthful ward taking the news?” Lionel inquired.

“He was with–” Alfred stopped abruptly. So this was a fishing expedition. Lionel would get no further information out of him.

“So, all four of them are missing? Most interesting.”

Alfred could almost picture the man stroking his beard, sitting in his office overlooking Metropolis the way a king overlooks his kingdom. Not that Alfred had ever seen Lionel’s office, but he had a fairly good idea what it must look like, cold and impersonal, much like the man himself. He often pictured Lionel as a bitter King Lear, having driven away the only child who ever loved him. Lex had always deserved so much better than Lionel, and Alfred had done what he could to give the boy direction when he faltered. It hadn’t been easy. He’d never felt like he’d done enough. For either of the boys.

“Mr. Luthor, is there a purpose to your call?”

“A purpose?” Alfred could hear the Cheshire cat grin through the phone. “No, Alfred. Just a friendly inquiry from one concerned parent to another.” A pause. “But, of course, you’re not Bruce’s father, are you? Just the man’s servant. Goodnight, Alfred. You’ve given me much to think about.”

The receiver went dead in Alfred’s hand. Lionel’s last comment was too triumphant, too sure. There was something else going on besides the boys’ disappearance, some reason Lionel would be delighted to know they were all unavailable.

Alfred had a sudden, horrible sinking feeling. He pulled open the drawer in the mahogany phone table and withdrew the address book. Flipping to the page marked “F,” he ran a finger down the page until he found the address he wanted. A glance at the clock, almost midnight, but he felt certain this was an emergency. Or it was about to be.

He dialled the number. A woman’s voice identified the Fox residence.

“I apologize for phoning so late, madam, but may I speak with Lucius Fox, please? It’s Alfred Pennyworth, and it’s very important.”

***

Lex realized someone was standing over him and had been for some time. It was almost like a game, seeing which of them would move first. Lex had never been very good at that game when he was a kid. Of course, playing with Bruce was unlike playing with anyone normal, but still, he didn’t like his chances of outlasting the person beside his bed. And his curiosity was getting the best of him. He let his eyes flicker open.

It was the lab assistant with the squeaky shoes. Trent. Troy. No, Trey–that was it. Lex swallowed dryly and opened his mouth to speak.

“What time is it?” His voice came out as a harsh whisper. It sounded foreign to his ears.

“After midnight,” the young man said.

He pushed at his glasses in the same way Clark had done when he’d first decided glasses were a good disguise. Lex had let him try it for a few months, but finally he’d insisted nobody wore glasses anymore, and people would think it weird if Lex Luthor’s partner couldn’t afford decent contact lenses. Lex understood the need to protect Clark’s identity, but glasses were not going to do it. So Clark had let him experiment with special contacts that changed from Clark’s natural green to a vibrant blue when he was wearing the Superman uniform, a reaction with the cloth and the light and a little bit of scientific luck.

“Where’s Slash?” Lex murmured.

The assistant looked confused for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, the general. The Doc called him off for the evening. You’re safe till morning.”

Safe. Lex almost choked on his relief. He hadn’t felt safe since this ordeal began–how long ago was it? It felt like days, but he suspected that was just his mind playing tricks on him.

“How long?” Trey didn’t seem to understand the question. “How long have I been here?” Lex asked.

“About twenty-four hours.”

Lex groaned. It couldn’t be possible. He’d been shot twice, and beaten. His wounds were already healing. It didn’t make any sense.

“Healing?”

“Yeah, pretty amazing, huh?” Trey’s face was lit up with wonder. “The injections have increased your natural abilities exponentially. That meteor shower sure did freaky things to people.”

The Kryptonite injections. Lex finally understood. They were using him as a lab rat while they did who knows what to Clark and the others. Maybe they were here too, strapped to other beds, undergoing similar tortures. Bruce was certainly no stranger to torture, but Lex still hated the thought. He knew every scar on Bruce’s body, and didn’t want to learn the placement of more. And Dick? God, he was only nineteen, Clark not much older than that. Not really.

“Clark?” Lex rasped.

“Haven’t seen him,” Trey said, looking away. Lex knew he was lying. At least that meant Clark was alive, here somewhere. Clark’s worst nightmare to be carted off to a lab and experimented on, and there was nothing Lex could do about it. The thought sickened him.

Lex swallowed gratefully as Trey brought a glass of water to his lips and let him sip. He wiped Lex’s mouth with a soft cloth.

“I have money, you know,” Lex said, desperate. He hated that money was the first thing that came to mind, a way to buy himself out of any trouble, but it had worked in the past, and why give up on a plan that usually worked? “If you could get me out of here, I’d make it worth your while.”

The assistant’s eyes seemed to light up. “How much money are we talking?”

Lex felt a surge of hope. “As much as you want. I could set you up in a lab of your own. University facilities. Funding. Whatever you want.”

“I bet you have a fancy car. Sports car?”

“Yes. You could have one. You could have them all.” Lex couldn’t care less about that at the moment. He’d live in Martha and Jonathan’s attic and shovel shit on the farm if he could just be with Clark. If they could get out of this alive.

“All? Wow. I’ve always kind of wanted a Ferrari.”

“I could get you one.”

“I’ve got this green Datsun. It starts to shimmy if you get over sixty-five.”

Trey shuffled some equipment on a tray beside the bed. Lex couldn’t see what he was doing, but he felt a hand settle on the binding at his wrist. Oh, thank God. Thank God.

“A Ferrari wouldn’t do that. Whatever you want. I’ll get you anything you want. Please, just help me get out of here. Before they come back.” Lex knew he sounded desperate. He didn’t care. Not if there was a chance of getting out of here.

“No one’s coming back till morning.”

“You wouldn’t have to work for these kind of people. I–I could help you,” Lex pleaded.

“You know, I’ve figured out I like these kind of people.” Trey’s tone was cold, and Lex felt the hope he’d been feeling start to slip away.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Why not?”

Trey leaned over him with a bright, emotionless smile. For the first time, Lex realized the assistant’s other hand held a silver scalpel, edge glinting in the flourescent light. Lex snapped his eyes shut even as he felt the first prick of steel against his shoulder.

“If you scream, I’ll stop,” came a whisper near his ear.

“No, you won’t.” Lex had been here before. He knew it was true.

The knowing laughter confirmed it. Lex kept his eyes closed and thought of Clark, ignoring the razor-sharp blade carving patterns on his skin. The incisions weren’t deep, but they were precise. Measured. Obviously the assistant wanted him to be healed by morning. No doubt the general wouldn’t like someone else playing with his toy. The thought gave Lex very little comfort as he lay there, silent, and endured the pain until his body couldn’t take it anymore. He passed into painless oblivion thinking of Clark.

***

“Would you like us to give you a ride home, Mrs. Parker?” Officer Carson stood and put his notebook back into his pocket. Aunt May looked at him and shook her head. She was too tired to correct him and tell him to call her Aunt May again.

“No, thank you, Officer. I think I’ll stay here tonight. In case there’s any news.” She was still reeling from the notion that Harry had disappeared, and possibly Peter along with him.

“And you’re certain your nephew would’ve gone to the party?”

“Well, there’s an easy way to check,” Aunt May said, and led the officers to Peter’s bedroom. His tuxedo hung in the closet. She stared at it for a moment, then took a closer look at the white shirt with the French cuffs and the covered buttons. A dark red stain on the front. She felt her heart leap for a moment until she leaned in and sniffed it. Some sort of sauce.

“Oh, I’ve told him not to let a stain set like that,” she said softly. “I’ll have to use bleach to get that out.”

“Ma’am?”

She glanced around the closet. “His blue suit’s gone. He only wears it to important occasions.” She tried not to think of how handsome Peter had looked in it the day of the funeral. Ben would’ve been proud of the fine figure Peter cut. He’d grown into a most handsome young man. “I’m sure he must’ve gone to the party. Harry’s his best friend, you know.”

The officers had been anxious to note that there was the possibility of a sixth missing person, and Officer Stanislovski had excused himself to phone it in to headquarters. When he returned, Aunt May and Officer Carson were back in the living room.

“Sean, you’ll never believe it. Some nutcase with four metal arms robbed the New York Mint tonight.

“Sounds like a job for Spider-man.”

“Yeah, except he didn’t show. The guy got away with a fortune in gold coin.”

Officer Carson shook his head, and missed the concerned look in Aunt May’s eyes. She’d always had her suspicions about Peter’s sudden disappearances, and when that nasty Green Goblin character had come after her and Mary Jane, well, she’d hoped Peter knew what he was doing. He wasn’t Superman, after all.

“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Parker.”

“Oh, officer, do you think I could have that list of the young men who are missing?” Aunt May smiled as sweetly as she could, leaning a little more heavily on the arm of the officer beside her. “I just think I might like to give their parents a call, maybe we could lend each other a little bit of support. I’m all alone, you see, and Peter and Harry, well, they’re the only family I’ve got.”

“I don’t see what the harm would be,” Officer Carson said, and quickly scribbled the names on a piece of paper. He handed the list to Aunt May. “Will you be all right, ma’am?”

She glanced at the names on the list, noting that the first two were from Gotham City. She held up the officer’s card. “I have your card if I need any help.”

“Okay, Mrs. Parker.” The two men walked towards the door. “Be sure to lock up after us.”

“I will.” Aunt May closed the door and considered her next move. Somewhere out there Peter and Harry were in trouble. She knew it, and she’d be damned if someone was going to cause harm to come to her boys while there was still breath in her body. She made herself a cup of tea, and took out the list of names. She hunted through the bookshelf until she came across Harry’s highschool yearbook from the time he was at Excelsior. There was a scrapbook with newspaper clippings as well. She began to make notes.

Connections started to take shape.

***

Bruce knew it was morning. He could feel it in his body the way other people might sense shifts in emotion. His internal chronometer had been honed years ago on his training trips to the Orient, and he was usually accurate to within a few minutes. He estimated the time as just after six am.

They’d been captive two nights now, and they would’ve been missed. Things would be in motion to find them, and there would be contingency plans to protect their identities. Bruce felt better knowing Alfred was out there taking care of things, setting plans in motion. He’d always been able to count on Alfred, even in the darkest times of his life.

Bruce showered and dressed himself in the clothes that had been left for him. The pants were a few inches short, but it was no matter. They simply didn’t flow as nicely when he shifted through his morning series of exercises. He was contemplating whether to attempt meditation again when the blinds that had been closed since he’d arrived in this room began to rise. They were sealed between the panes of glass on the large window, but they moved within their prison smoothly, sliding completely out of view and disappearing into some hidden compartment above. The view was now completely unobstructed.

Bruce let out a low whistle. The room he was looking into was the size of an airplane hangar. It was almost too much space to comprehend all at once, and his mind catalogued the various “rooms” that seemed to have been set out in the open space in front of him. There was an area featuring weight equipment that rivalled his own gym at home; there were treadmills and stationary bikes and other sorts of fitness machines. Beyond that was a boxing ring, and several weight bags hanging from metal beams that seemed to have been constructed for just that purpose. On the back wall, which appeared to be made entirely of natural rock, was a climbing wall. Bruce could see pitons and ropes and other climbing equipment hanging on hooks. He could make out archery targets on one end of the wall.

In the centre of the room was a pool, easily 50 m in length, and complete with diving boards of various heights. What looked like a whirlpool bubbled beside the pool. To the right, a complete gymnastic centre, including parallel bars, pommel horse, rings, balance beam, and uneven bars. Beyond that, Bruce could make out various cabinets that seemed to hold other sorts of equipment. There were wooden kendo sticks, fencing swords and masks, a variety of weapons.

What amazed Bruce most of all was the structure that stood between the boxing ring and the climbing wall. It stretched the length of half the room, and consisted of two towers with a safety net stretched between them. It was a trapeze just waiting for a circus performer to take flight. Bruce felt something in his heart catch. What on earth did these people want them for?

“Good morning, gentlemen,” a voice said. It appeared to come from everywhere at once. It was not the voice of the general. This must be the person who was running the show, the one who Malcolm Cain had sold them out to at the party. Bruce could hardly believe that had only been two nights ago.

“Let me welcome you to your new home.”

Bruce didn’t like the sound of that. It suggested permanence. He certainly didn’t plan on being here any longer than he had to.

The voice continued. It was soothing and warm and Bruce found himself wanting to believe whatever it was saying. He fought the feeling, concentrated on resisting. “As you can see, everything you might possibly need has been provided.”

“Except our freedom,” Bruce said darkly.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne, that is correct. Your freedom is not an option at this time.”

Bruce looked up. He wondered if the others could hear him, or if it was only the mysterious man with the hypnotic voice.

“Dick! Clark!” he called out experimentally. There was a bored sigh from the speakers.

“Really, Mr. Wayne. So predictable. I’d expected much more from Batman. How long will it take you to realize I control everything that happens here? Everything, including whether you live or die. For now it suits me to leave you alive, but believe me, if you ever become too much of a problem, I will have no trouble ending your miserable life. Now, there are others here who are interested in what I have to say.”

Rebuked, Bruce glared at the glass in front of him, and held his tongue. He would have to bide his time, learn what was expected, and formulate a plan accordingly. He needed to learn the rules of this new game.

“All manner of equipment has been provided. You will be allowed to continue your training. In fact, it is your only mission while you are here. To become the best at what you do. You will begin your training alone, or with qualified combatants where required. But let me caution you.”

The voice sharpened. “Attempts at escape will not be dealt with lightly. Punishment will be swift and painful, and will be visited upon the other four members of this group.”

Four. So Lex was still somewhere else. Bruce felt his heart ache a little more. He hoped Lex was alive. If he was, he could endure this, could endure anything until Lex was safe again.

“This will not all be about hard work and punishment, gentlemen. There will be rewards.” The voice had turned to honey, and Bruce shook himself as he felt the voice drawing him in again. Whoever this man was, he was well-schooled in manipulation and mind control. They were going to have to be careful.

“Rewards will take a variety of forms. Every three days, you will be able to train with a partner. The partner will be selected for you from among your four companions. Any attempts at escape will be severely punished. Once every two weeks, you’ll be allowed an overnight visit from one of the group. Again, your partner will be selected for you. What you choose to do with your time is up to you, but planning an escape will do you no good. I suggest you find more healthy ways to work off that pent-up frustration.” The man’s laugh was sinuous and suggestive. It made Bruce’s skin crawl.

“You have all noticed the large window in front of you. It will remain clear during the daytime so you may watch your companions training. I remind you that any attempt to communicate plans to one another will result in punishment. You will also have noticed the one-way glass on the two interior walls of the room. These mirrors are actually windows into your companions’ rooms, where you will be able to see them but they won’t be able to see you. For an hour each evening, one of the mirrors will clear. You will change rooms frequently, so your companions will change from day to day, but perhaps seeing one another going about the business of living will help the time pass a little more quickly. It will also assure you that your friends are still alive.”

Bruce shook his head. Elaborate facilities, mirrors and glass, limited contact with one another–they would have to be so careful. Still, the chance of being able to see the others, know they were all right would help. Escape was not completely unthinkable. He would simply have to be more clever than he’d ever been.

Bruce heard a small click on the line, as if the voice had been absent for a moment and then returned. “Mr. Kent has inquired about the condition of your missing companion, Mr. Luthor. He is being cared for in our medical facility, and will be returned to you when he has recovered. Assuming I have your full and complete co-operation.”

Bruce nodded. He had to assume all of their actions were being monitored all the time. Best to pretend they were going along with things.

“A morning meal will be delivered to you shortly, as will your schedules for the day. Please make yourselves at home, and if there’s anything you require, simply let the staff know. Attempting to escape by using them as hostages will make absolutely no difference to me, so please save us both the trouble. Everyone in my employ is prepared to die in my service, and unlike the lot of you, I have no problem with killing. Keep that in mind.”

Bruce asked the question that had been at the back of his mind. “How long do you intend to keep us prisoner?”

“Mr. Wayne has asked an excellent question. How long shall be your exile from society? Quite frankly, it depends on you. I want each of you in top physical condition. Even more than you are now. I imagine that will take a month or two at most, and then you will begin new lives where you will be able to use your gifts.”

New lives? Bruce felt a tremor of fear. What did that mean? What were they being trained for?

The voice kept talking. “In the meantime, the police remain baffled by your disappearances, and your families begin to grow concerned. In time, they will accept you are lost to them, and will give up the search.”

No, Bruce thought. No, they won’t. Alfred would never give up on him. Nor would Clark’s parents. Or the Justice League. Someone would find them, would come for them. All they had to do was hang on and wait for an opportunity to escape or get a message out. Sooner or later everyone makes a mistake. The voice would too. He was confident, too confident, and Bruce would simply wait for it. Train and be ready. He could do that. He’d spent his whole life doing exactly that.

The door behind him slid open and a servant presented a tray with his usual breakfast on it. Bruce accepted it, glancing back at the white corridor outside. There was no indication of how long it was or where it led. In his mind, he started mapping the building, its size and shape, its possible locations given the nature of the rock that seemed to be a natural element in the structure. He would find a way to get them all to safety. He had to.

He glanced at the piece of paper on the tray even as he sliced into the half a grapefruit. Apparently he was scheduled for the weight room in less than an hour. He bit into the sweet fruit and looked forward to having something productive to do.

***

Alfred opened the door to a small woman he didn’t recognize. Her grey-hair was perched in a loose bun at the back of her head, and her tan trench coat was neat, despite the worn edges of the belt.

“Can I help you, madam?” Alfred inquired.

“I hope so,” she said. She leaned on her umbrella as if it were a walking stick, and consulted a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. “I want to speak with you about the disappearance of Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson.”

***

Lex flinched away from the cold touch of leather against his shoulder. General Seine was leaning over him, examining his skin with curiosity.

“Who did this to you?”

Lex shook his head and closed his eyes. What the hell did it matter, anyway? They were going to use him for their experiments until the day he wasn’t useful anymore, and then they’d just kill him. He knew how these things usually worked out. Badly.

Leather-covered fingers gripped his chin harshly and squeezed. “I asked you, who did this?”

Seine’s voice was angry, but Lex had the sneaking suspicion it wasn’t at him, which might’ve been encouraging if Lex didn’t know his captor was a psychopath.

“The assistant. Trey,” Lex whispered through clenched teeth. Seine let his jaw go.

“You’re sure?”

It seemed important to Seine, and Lex suspected the kid was in for a little more than a severe talking to. Lex couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it considering the guy had used him as a cutting board for a considerable portion of the wee hours of the morning.

“Yes.” What reason did he have to lie? At this point, Lex didn’t think he could’ve made this shit up even if he’d wanted to. Everything in the last two days had been fucking insane. There was part of him that still hoped it was just some kind of a delusion brought on by too much champagne at the party.

Seine’s fingers traced the fading scars on his shoulder, thoughtfully. “He cut too deep in places, but overall, it was nicely done.”

Lex opened his eyes and stared at the scar-faced general. He couldn’t help it. He started to laugh at the thought of the man critiquing his torturer-in-training. It wasn’t at all funny, but he laughed and laughed until he felt his lungs would burst. His helpless shrieks of laughter echoed off the walls around him, and the general backed away with a look of concern, leaving him in peace. The doctor appeared with a sedative of some kind–not green and glowing–and Lex slipped into sleep, still chuckling softly.

***

Clark grunted and sweated, pushing the metal bar off his chest. He felt a muscle in his arm cramp, and his spotter caught the bar and eased it back onto its moorings.

“That’s probably enough for the first day,” the large black man said. Clark took the offered towel and sat up on the weight bench, wiping his face. He was embarrassed. He could lift vehicles over his head, stop a jumbo jet in mid-flight with his bare hands, and now, thanks to this damn collar, he could barely bench-press a hundred pounds. He’d watched Bruce easily clear four hundred earlier in the day, and had been anxious to try himself.

Now, he wished he’d never even seen the weight bench.

“Your muscles are untrained. You’ve relied on your powers too long,” the black man said amiably. “It will take you time to shape them, but not long.” The man squeezed Clark’s bicep. “Not long at all.”

Clark nodded and glanced back at the five glass windows facing into the training area. At four of them stood Dick, Bruce, Harry, and Peter. Watching him. Clark looked away, ashamed to be caught feeling sorry for himself, ashamed to be shown as weak.

“What’s next?” he asked the trainer.

***

Malcolm Cain read through his copy of _The New York Post_ with interest. It was his Sunday morning ritual. A tall dark coffee from the Starbucks down the street, a sweet croissant from Le Petit Oiseau, and the paper laid out on the small table in his apartment. He did the crossword puzzle first, giving up halfway through as he always did. His eyes kept drifting back to six across. A morbid fear of dainties. He was sure he’d had no idea there was even such a thing, but something was telling him he was supposed to know the answer. It was unnerving. He finally pulled out the crossword puzzle and set it aside. Maybe one of these years, he’d manage to do the whole thing, but even the half-finished crossword was a ritual of sorts, and it didn’t really bother him. Except for six across.

It had been a good weekend. He and the boys had hooked up late Friday night with the spoils from a job. It was funny he couldn’t quite remember what the job had been, but he knew it was a good job from the money and jewels they’d taken. Stuff had been divided, sent out to the usual fences for distribution. They could lie low for a while. Take it easy. Probably wouldn’t have to pull another job for at least six months. He could take his time. Plan. Maybe take that night school course in real estate management he’d been thinking about. He was getting too old to be a thief. Even a professional one.

Someone had questioned his integrity lately. He remembered that. But he couldn’t quite remember who. Well, no matter. Maybe it was time to get out of the business, do something else. He had enough money to keep him going for a while, his investments were doing well, and the gang was self-sufficient. They’d manage if he wanted a break.

He flipped open the paper and sipped his coffee. A robbery at the New York Mint by some guy that was supposed to have four metal arms attached to his body. Cain laughed. Everyone had a gimmick. He shook his head. Didn’t people know that to be a good thief you wanted to blend in, become part of the background? You didn’t want people to notice you, remember you. That kind of defeated the purpose.

He scanned the headlines for anything of interest. It was troubling him that he couldn’t exactly remember the job they’d pulled. None of the others seemed to remember it clearly either, but Cain was pretty sure it wasn’t bothering them. They’d each cleared a considerable amount of money.

No, it was only bothering him. He wasn’t getting so old that he wouldn’t remember a job. The grey-hair was misleading, he knew. Made him look older, but he was just forty-five. Not old at all. At least he didn’t think so.

A short article on page three caught his attention: “Osborn Heir Missing After Alumni Function.” Cain remembered reading about the kid’s father dying a while back. At twenty-something, he’d become one of the richest men in the country. Cain would’ve liked to have had a piece of that fortune. Too bad the kid’s old man had to die, but a young guy could do a lot with that kind of money. Travel. Go to school. Do something useful for people.

Cain read the article. He thought maybe it would mention what the kid was doing with the money, but all it said was he was running his father’s company. Yeah. He probably would’ve done that anyway. Not very original. Nothing exciting there.

The article was deliberately vague, alluding to “conflicting reports” of something that had happened at the alumni event for some hoity-toity prep school for boys, but the reporter never really got around to saying anything important.

“‘Police are still investigating’,” Cain read aloud. Yeah, that meant they didn’t know a damn thing. He finished his coffee, and closed the paper. It was a beautiful day. Too nice to be cooped up inside.

Maybe he’d head for the park. Watch the kids launching their boats on the lake.

He headed for the shower, humming a cheerful tune.

***

Peter flinched as a guy in a lab coat injected something into his neck. He flexed his wrists, feeling the surge of power as his spider-abilities started to return. He shot a strand of web experimentally at the wall. It was weak and limp, rather more like spittle than webbing, but it was a start.

“Your powers will return to full-strength within twenty-four hours, Mr. Parker.” The disembodied voice came through the speakers in his room. “You are being allowed to use them under one condition only. If you turn them against any of my men, I have the ability to remove them from you permanently.”

Peter swallowed. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with the powers he now possessed, but he couldn’t imagine going back to plain old Peter Parker. He liked being Spider-man. It made him feel alive.

“Do I make myself clear, Mr. Parker?”

“Perfectly,” Peter replied, and shot another strand of webbing at the wall. It was stronger this time, thicker. He’d get control of his powers, then figure out a way to get them out of this mess. Somehow.

***

“I’m not sure what you mean, madam,” Alfred said. May Parker was like no other woman he’d met. She reminded him in some ways of Leslie Thompkins, or what Leslie might be like in another twenty years. Formidable in her own right, and not easily put off. Leslie was one of the few people Bruce would listen to besides him, and he’d seen her put her foot down on medical matters, refusing to let him leave her clinic if he was just going to get himself hurt again. Most of the time, Bruce listened.

“I think you know exactly what I mean, Mr. Pennyworth. But I’ll try to be a little plainer.” Mrs. Parker put down her teacup delicately, and straightened her skirt. “I’m only doing this because I could tell right away you’re the kind of man who can be trusted with things. Important things.” She held his eyes knowingly and didn’t look away. “Peter’s been my responsibility since his parents were killed. His Uncle Ben and I–God rest his soul–did our best with him. I believe you know a little something about looking after an orphan child, Mr. Pennyworth?”

Alfred nodded. Yes, he understood perfectly. Destined to never quite be a parent, but feeling like one nevertheless, bearing the responsibility of one even after the child was long grown up.

“Peter has disappeared. Along with his best friend, Harry. Poor Harry’s an orphan too, and the two of them have been so close.”

Alfred sat up straighter. Harry Osborn, of course. Mrs. Parker shook her head sadly. Alfred knew she was thinking of happier times, but she collected herself quickly.

“Peter’s always been a ... _special_ , boy. Oh, I don’t think he realizes I know exactly how special he is, but he spends a lot of his time helping people in New York. Getting them out of _sticky_ situations.” She paused. “Of course, that’s not really the important part.”

Alfred picked up on the clue. Clever of her to introduce the topic, then dismiss it. Of course, she could only be talking about Spider-man. So, it was Harry’s best friend that was the costumed hero. Well, wherever they were, chances were good that the six of them were together. It was looking more and more like a kidnapping of superheroes, and Lex and Harry may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Peter’s a very good boy, but I’ve told him many times, he’s no Superman. Even if he does wear the same tights.”

“Madam, I take your meaning quite clearly.”

She picked up her teacup and sipped. “Both my boys are missing, Mr. Pennyworth. I’ve known Harry since he and Peter were in a summer science program together. Even when Harry went off to boarding school, he and Peter stayed in touch. And after Grade 12 together, well, they were inseparable. Harry’s like one of my own, and you’ve got two boys that are also missing. Two remarkable boys, if I’m not mistaken. Very much the same special relationship as Peter and Harry, I suspect.”

Alfred nodded. Yes, Bruce and Dick were certainly that. Remarkable. He couldn’t love them more if they were his own flesh and blood. Dick had brought such a light into their lives, a joy. The two of them worked so well as partners. Batman and Robin. Alfred would’ve never believed Bruce would benefit from having a partner so young, but it had made all the difference. Batman was less dark, but no less effective. It had been a minor miracle, as far as Alfred was concerned, and when he saw them together behaving like friends, it warmed his heart like nothing else did.

“Someone out there is trying to do harm to our boys, Mr. Pennyworth. And the police are doing nothing at all to connect the disappearances. I think we know, though, what connects these young men, what makes them all inordinately special, and therefore so easily targeted by evil-doers. People with narrow minds and limited understanding of the gifts these boys have to offer, the parts of themselves they’ve had to hide.”

Alfred couldn’t help but smile. She was obviously as fiercely proud of her boys, as he was of his. She seemed to understand the pressure that came from keeping secrets, the necessity of performing their good works in the dark.

Alfred couldn’t help but think what a different relationship the two might’ve had if not for Lionel Luthor. That nasty business had prevented Bruce from acting on any of his feelings beyond friendship, but Dick was an adult now, and more persistent than most people when it came to Bruce. Alfred had high hopes that they might find some happiness together. If only Bruce would let himself feel love again.

“The police don’t care. The world may not even care, Mr. Pennyworth, but I care and you care.” Her voice grew louder and Alfred feared for the delicate china teacup in her grasp. “We need to find a way to bring them back, rescue them from whoever has taken them. I can’t do it alone, and I won’t wait until someone finds their beaten bodies dragged behind a truck and puts them up on the news as examples,” she said. “I need your help.”

Alfred thought it was a curious example to use, but he was caught up in her speech. Her fervour. Her obvious love for the young men in her charge. Alfred made a snap decision. He rarely did so, but he liked Mrs. Parker and it occurred to him what an ordeal it had been for her to travel here from New York to seek his help. She was right, of course. The police were ill-equipped to deal with missing superheroes, and Spider-man was still a relative newcomer on the scene in some ways. She was right to seek help from someone who had more experience with such things, and Alfred had more than a little experience.

“I offer whatever services I have at my disposal, madam,” he said, rising to his feet. He extended a hand towards her. Perhaps together the two of them could make some sense of the contradictory reports.

“I know you have connections, Mr. Pennyworth. Good connections.” She looked at him meaningfully. “Special connections. I’ve seen your name in the papers many times alongside Bruce and Dick. But also you’ve been rescued by Batman and Robin. Superman. The Justice League. They all seem to know you. I’m sure those men also have a vested interest in keeping men like our boys safe.”

“Absolutely.”

Alfred led her into the study, and paused momentarily in front of the grandfather clock that concealed the entrance to the Bat-Cave. He hoped Master Bruce would forgive him the breach of etiquette, but this remarkable woman obviously had already figured things out on her own. Alfred tugged at the pendulum and saw Mrs. Parker’s startled face as it swung open to reveal the staircase to the Cave.

“Tell me, madam,” Alfred said. “How was it you deduced that Master Bruce and Master Dick are actually Batman and Robin?”

“Um ...” She put a hand to her mouth and stared into the darkness of the open grandfather clock. She seemed to hesitate. “Mr. Luthor and Mr. Kent were so public about their relationship, and well, it made sense to me that the others might be the same.”

“Public? I’m not sure I follow.” Alfred stared into the darkness of the Cave, heard the stirring of bats, and wondered if he’d just made a terrible mistake.

“Public.” Mrs. Parker’s voice was barely a whisper. “Openly homosexual. I just thought–I mean, it seemed reasonable, the all-boys boarding schools and Peter liking to dress up in tights. Harry and Peter were always so close, just like your Dick and Bruce. None of their girlfriends ever worked out. Oh my ... Batman and Robin, you say? Oh dear.”

She looked like she might faint. Alfred knew exactly how she felt.

***

Harry climbed the rock wall with difficulty. It had been a long time since he’d done anything like this. Sure, he worked out, he swam, he jogged. But he didn’t train like this with someone standing over him, pushing him, watching his every move. He tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him he was weak, that he would never be half the man his father was. He pushed through the pain, and grabbed for the next outcropping of stone.

“That’s good, Harry.” The voice of the large black man drifted up from far below. “You’re almost at the top. Just take it slow.”

Harry took a breath, swung his foot over to a crevice, and missed. His sweaty fingers slipped off the stone wall and he slid down the safety rope at an alarming speed. The trainer slowed his fall.

“Good try. Much better than before. Do some laps, and then we’ll call it a day.”

Harry kicked off the wall, his runners bouncing against the rock every ten feet or so. He was frustrated with his inability to conquer the rock face. He spent a large part of his day watching the others put through their paces. Lifting weights, swimming, climbing. Peter was a natural on the wall. His spider-powers were back, and he didn’t even need the rocky outcroppings. He climbed effortlessly, then lowered himself to the ground via a strand of web. It was an amazing sight.

Spider-man had killed his father. Harry couldn’t forget that. Even if it was Peter, even if it had been an accident of some kind. Peter had lied to him, kept it from him. He couldn’t trust Peter. Not really. Not ever again.

Even if that’s what his heart wanted more than anything else.

Harry dropped to the ground, and the black man clapped him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, you conquer the wall,” he said confidently.

Harry wasn’t so sure.

***

Bruce stood by the window, his long fingers pressed helplessly against the glass, while Dick twirled through the air, swinging from one trapeze to the other. He made it look effortless. God, he was beautiful.

Some thoughtful person had given Dick a bodysuit to wear. Tight and red, it made him look like a living flame sweeping through the air. Bruce didn’t think anyone could watch him and not be moved. He was poetry. Pure energy. The embodiment of joy. Even from behind shatterproof glass, Bruce could see the smile radiating from Dick’s face as he leapt into space, believing that the trapeze would be there when he needed it. He never missed.

Bruce felt a certain inexplicable envy directed at the other man up there, the one hanging upside down and catching Dick’s strong arms in his hands. When Dick’s workout was done, Bruce watched as the boy spontaneously embraced the other man, the sheer happiness of being able to fly again written on every feature of Dick’s face. Bruce wanted to be the one Dick was hugging like that. Bruce wanted it to be him.

Without thinking, he smashed a fist against the glass. Dick heard the sound and turned, the delight on his face vanishing as he caught sight of Bruce.

“No,” Bruce said aloud, shaking his head. Dick looked embarrassed and stepped away from the older man. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

He knew Dick was probably too far away to read his lips, wondered if their captor would consider that a breach of the rules. Bruce watched as the man glared at him, and putting an arm around Dick’s shoulders, led him out of sight.

Bruce felt his heart ache like it hadn’t in a very long time.

***

It took two days for Alfred to get the Kents from Smallville to Gotham City, what with having to make arrangements for someone to milk the cows and look after the farm. Mr. Kent didn’t trust just anyone to do those things, which Alfred understood, but he felt it was important for them all to speak face to face and sort a few things out. Especially given his atrocious slip-up with Peter Parker’s Aunt May, although Alfred was choosing to look at that as a fortuitous happenstance rather than an egregious error.

Of course, he’d frightened the poor woman, but she’d taken it mostly in stride and nodded like the trooper she was and said, “well, that explains a great deal then, doesn’t it?”

Truthfully, it had been lovely to have a woman around the house who was as capable as he was of making a good cup of tea and who remembered much of the same history he did, if not a good bit more. It was simply nice to have a companion about the echoing halls of the manor who wasn’t a constant source of worry, nor in need of stitching, and Alfred remembered with a mixture of sadness and delight the days when he’d had more time for such pleasures. When Bruce was young and away at school. Before he’d taken up the mantle of fighting crime. But those times had been more than ten years ago. It hardly seemed possible.

Alfred ushered the Kents into the sitting room and made introductions all around. He was forthright with everything he knew, and when he saw Mr. and Mrs. Kent’s hesitant looks at the secret they had kept so long being talked about so openly, he was quick to reassure them.

“Mrs. Parker is in the same situation we are, I’m afraid. I hoped that by bringing us all together, we might better be able to assess how to deal with the situation. Commissioner Gordon has informed me the press has gotten wind of the story, and it’s only a matter of time before they are pounding on our doors. Better we meet them with a united front.”

“What about Lionel Luthor?” Aunt May asked.

Mr. Kent snorted and shook his head. “That man is lower than the slime on the belly of a snake at the bottom of a pond.”

“Jonathan!”

“It’s true, Martha. Lionel Luthor does not now have, nor has he ever had, an ounce of genuine interest in what happens to his son.”

Alfred saw Aunt May’s concerned look. “I’m afraid it’s true. Lionel Luthor is the worst excuse for a father a boy could have. Lex had a difficult childhood. It was just fortunate he found young Clark at such a crucial point in his life.”

“And Bruce,” Martha murmured.

Alfred nodded. He supposed it needed to be acknowledged, although he’d often thought Bruce and Lex would kill each other if they didn’t love each other so much. He’d never been comfortable with their relationship, had tried to discourage them both from pursuing it beyond the realm of friendship, but his cautions had fallen on deaf ears. In retrospect, Alfred could see it had sustained them both at a time when they desperately needed love, and so he couldn’t think of it harshly. It was difficult for him to find fault with either of them. Even now. Even knowing them as he did.

“Harry mentioned Bruce and Lex in passing sometimes, but they were just names to me.” May’s teacup rattled against her saucer. “I wish I’d paid more attention now. Maybe it would help.”

Martha patted the older woman on the arm. “What’s important is that we try to figure out what’s happened to them, or at least what we do until they find a way to come back to us.”

Jonathan nodded. “That’s right. Has the Justice League heard anything?”

“No,” Alfred said. “There’s been no sign of the boys anywhere, and J’onn hasn’t been able to locate them telepathically either. They’ve either been taken off-world or are being shielded somehow.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.” Martha looked at Alfred for confirmation.

“I’m afraid it is. Someone with powerful telepathic abilities could effectively shield them from sight. It would be draining, but possible. Zatanna, a friend of Bruce’s, has done a magical search, but it has yielded no results. The League is as baffled as we are, particularly since there have been no demands for ransom.”

“What could they want with them if not money?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m not sure. Blackmail, perhaps. I don’t know.” Alfred poured more tea for everyone and returned to his seat. “But one thing we do have to be aware of is that the League is taking steps to ensure that Superman, Batman and Robin, and now Spider-man continue to be seen. It’s the only way to protect their real identities.”

“They can’t do that forever.” Jonathan stirred another spoonful of sugar into his tea.

“No, they can’t, but the League has called in reinforcements from the superhero world. Shape-shifters and those that can mimic powers are taking turns. It’s a temporary measure only, and a long term plan will need to be decided upon if they remain absent for longer than a few weeks. The League is still in its infancy, and this kind of setback might be devastating for its development.” Alfred sipped his tea. “Luckily, Master Bruce in his infinite paranoia, drew up a number of contingency plans for emergencies just like this one–”

“Just like this one?” Martha exclaimed.

“Well, not exactly, but circumstances where he or Superman was incapacitated or missing. There are courses of action we can pursue. Granted, none of his plans quite anticipated this level of disappearance, but May and I have been going through the information and attempting to pull together the most reasonable options.” Alfred saw Martha smile at the use of Mrs. Parker’s first name. He wondered if he should switch to something more formal, but decided against it. This was not a situation that called for formalities. He reminded himself to make every effort to call the Kents Martha and Jonathan.

Aunt May nodded. “Bruce seems like a very well-organized young man. A bit fatalistic, perhaps, but definitely practical.”

Martha hid a grin behind her digestive biscuit. “Alfred, what about Lex’s people? His company?”

“That is precisely why I needed you all here. Altogether Harry, Bruce, and Lex control three of the largest corporations in the United States. Wayne Enterprises is one of the largest and most active businesses in the entire world. Luckily, Bruce’s role in running his company is relatively minor. Lucius Fox, CEO, is more than capable of maintaining the business end of things even through a prolonged absence. He has power of attorney and any number of legal niceties he needs to make his job easier. And I trust him implicitly. As does Master Bruce.”

Alfred nodded his head towards Aunt May. “From what May and I’ve been able to determine, Harry’s corporation is also in capable hands. Harry owns a controlling share, the board is sympathetic to his concerns, and the CEO, Victor Bromfield, is trustworthy. Lucius feels the company can be easily managed throughout any absence. Shareholders might get antsy, but Harry’s involvement has been minimal to this point, so Bromfield should be able to convince them to stick it out. Lucius can certainly throw the financial backing of Wayne Enterprises behind OsCorp if necessary.”

“And what about LexCorp?” It was Martha who asked, and Alfred knew from the look in her eye, she already anticipated what the situation might be. They were going to have a fight on their hands if they were going to keep Lex’s pride and joy afloat.

“LexCorp is a slightly more difficult matter. Lex owns controlling interest, which is fortunate, but Lionel has already been making waves among the board members. Lex has set things up so that if something happens to him, ownership of his shares reverts to Clark.”

“Clark wouldn’t know anything about running a company like that,” Jonathan burst out.

“I said ownership of the shares. Actually, running of the company would be left to Bruce, or to someone designated by him. Do you see where the problem lies?”

“Both Bruce and Clark are also missing.”

“Exactly. Situations like this make companies very nervous. I’ve spoken to Lex’s personal secretary–lovely woman with a good head on her shoulders–and got her to send the ownership documents and the legal papers over to Lucius Fox. He’s been examining them to see what courses of action are available.”

“And?” It was Martha who asked the question, brushing crumbs lightly off her lips.

“At the moment, Lex and the others are only missing. However, Lex has been a very active CEO and the company is going to need someone to make day-to-day decisions.”

“Lionel’s going to want in.” Jonathan Kent was a very astute man when he wanted to be.

“Yes, that is my fear, as well.”

“And how do we stop him?”

Jonathan looked as if he’d be happy to stand in the foyer of the LexCorp building with a shotgun and make sure Lionel Luthor stayed off the premises. Under different circumstances, Alfred might just let him.

“With some creative legal wrangling. When Lionel had Lex committed,” Alfred glanced at May with a look that said he’d try to explain later, “Bruce pulled out a power of attorney they’d drawn up when they were eighteen. It was perfectly legal, and sheer dumb luck they’d done it. It was a sign of their commitment to their friendship, I suppose. Lucius has found some precedent for the transfer of power of attorney.”

“Meaning that if Bruce has power of attorney, but is unavailable, whoever has Bruce’s power of attorney can still act for him. Is that it?” Alfred sometimes forgot Martha was the daughter of a lawyer. She was no stranger to the ins and outs of corporate law.

“Yes. If nothing else, it will buy us some time, and Lucius can help to keep LexCorp soluble by putting someone competent in place as a temporary measure. He’s gone to Metropolis to meet with the LexCorp board.”

“And Lionel?”

“Is going to be livid, I would imagine,” Alfred admitted. “We will merely have turned the lion from the door. He will continue circling the house looking for a way in, by force if necessary. We will need to be vigilant if the boys cannot be located quickly.”

“What about the press?” Martha asked finally. “I mean, Clark works for a newspaper. They’re going to want a comment.”

“Yes,” Alfred said. “And here’s what we’re going to do.”

***

Lionel Luthor flung open the double doors to the LexCorp board room with his usual panache.

“John, Cynthia, Marcus, good to see you all.” He smiled broadly and nodded as he moved around the table, shaking hands and clapping people on the shoulder. At the end of the table in the seat he would’ve taken for himself, there was a black man he didn’t recognize. He was about fifty, with greying hair and a no-nonsense kind of demeanor.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Lionel Luthor extended his hand. The man didn’t take it.

“Lucius Fox.”

“You seem to be in my seat.” Lionel chuckled and glanced around the table. It concerned him that the board members weren’t meeting his eyes.

Fox consulted a piece of paper in front of him, and shook his head. “You don’t hold a seat on this board, Mr. Luthor. If you’d like to remain for the meeting, it will be as a courtesy, nothing more.”

“How dare you? Who do you think you are?”

Fox simply smiled and took off his reading glasses so he could look Lionel Luthor straight in the eye. “I’m going to be the acting CEO of your son’s company until such time as he reappears or until I appoint a successor. But I will be working very closely with the board to ensure the company continues to run as Lex would want.” Lucius smiled appreciatively at the men and women gathered around the large table.

“That’s ridiculous.” Lionel felt his face turn scarlet. No one talked to him like that. Particularly not in a Luthor building.

“I’m afraid not, Lionel.” It was John McGovern who spoke, legal counsel for LexCorp. “Lex provided for Bruce Wayne to run his company if he were ever unable to do so, and with Lex missing–”

“This isn’t Bruce Wayne!” Lionel bellowed. “Bruce Wayne has disappeared as well, in case you missed the news.” That got them. There were restless mutterings around the table.

“Mr. Wayne’s power of attorney allows for me to act in his stead in all financial and business related matters in his absence.”

“You can’t grandfather a power of attorney.” Lionel was outraged. What kind of nonsense was this Fox character trying to pull, anyway? “John?”

McGovern looked sheepish. “Actually, there’s some precedent for what he’s proposing, Lionel. And we do need someone to run the company in Lex’s absence.”

Lionel had heard enough. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him. They wanted to play hardball? They wanted to keep LexCorp from him when by all rights it should be his if Lex was dead or gone or just too busy fucking his boy-toy to come into work? There was no way he was going to take orders from some wanna-be CEO foisted on him by Bruce Wayne. He would buy winter vacation property in hell first.

No, there had to be a way. And he was going to find it.

***

Lex lost track of time. His life was made up of injections and blood tests, one vial pushing green liquid into him, the next drawing red out. His body had become a traffic light with only green and red signals. Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

They moved him from the lab into a room that overlooked a garden. Sometimes he could see small birds and animals skittering among the plants. Men in black uniforms brought him clean clothes and regular meals. Mostly he just slept and tried to forget about the pain. The wounds healed, faster and faster all the time.

He had nightmares. He woke up screaming for Bruce, and his heart felt guilty. The nightmares hadn’t been this bad since he was a kid. Since the meteor shower.

General Seine continued to visit him, taunt him, touch him. There were knives and ropes and cold steel instruments that Lex never opened his eyes to see. There was hot water and a red-hot poker and something that felt like it might be teeth. Lex didn’t want to know. He knew the sting of leeches and the bite of fire ants, and he would never, ever forget the smell of burning skin. He screamed until his throat was raw, until his voice was completely spent, and then he screamed silently, his mouth open and expelling breath. He felt completely helpless.

He experienced more gunshots. Large calibre, small calibre, automatic weapons fire. That was a horrifying experience, feeling his life spill out from at least ten different holes across his body. They weren’t careful enough with that one, he knew. He’d come close to dying that time. No one had touched him for days after that. Or it felt like days. He didn’t really know anymore. Time had become something that existed in a different life.

Every day he inquired about Clark, Bruce, the others. They were still alive, he was told. They were being held for a purpose, but no one would tell him what that purpose was. One day Lex saw a man being given stitches over his eye while Lex waited for his own injection.

“That Batman,” the man said. “He is very quick.”

“He fought you? Trying to escape?” Lex kept his voice low. This was the first real news he’d had of the others.

The man chuckled. “Fought me, yes. Escape, no. I train with him, keep him fit. He has accepted his place here. But he fights like a magnificent warrior.”

Lex shook his head. No, Bruce would never give in like that. He would be trying to escape, to get to him. He wouldn’t be spending his time sparring with guards for fun. Would he? Lex tried to make sense of it, and couldn’t.

Finally, Lex said, “I want to see Clark. I want to know he’s alive.”

The doctor looked at him as if he were an insect under glass, just another experiment, and said, “Okay. That can be arranged.”

Lex didn’t know whether to be happy or terrified she’d agreed so easily.

***

Lois Lane did an article for _The Daily Planet_ entitled, “Our Man Kent.” It was a feature-length piece and included an interview with Jonathan and Martha Kent discussing the recent disappearance of their son, Clark. The article appeared on page three, being bumped from the front page by Superman’s spectacular rescue of a family of orphans from a burning building. The photograph of Superman was blurry–it had been captured by an onlooker when he was moving at super-speed–but his uniform appeared more red than blue, and the “S” insignia looked remarkably like a bolt of lightning. Very few people noticed.

 _The Gotham City Gazette_ ran a full-page profile of Bruce Wayne in its business section. Alongside his corporate successes was the tragic tale of his parents’ murder and his tumultuous years at boarding school, including speculation about a relationship with Lex Luthor. At least two follow-up articles focussed on the allegations of sexual misconduct put forward by Lionel Luthor in relation to Wayne’s care-taking of an orphaned teenage boy. The articles failed to mention the allegations had been proven false.

 _The Inquisitor_ published an article by Carrie Castle that dished about the relationship between Clark Kent and Lex Luthor. Unnamed sources close to the missing men suggested there were domestic problems and financial difficulties. It was suggested that “a handsome Gotham billionaire might just be the source of tension between Metropolis’ happiest couple.” Castle dug up classmates to share dirt on what Lex, Bruce, and Harry were like in school. Friends described them as “the three musketeers, practically inseparable.” The gossip columns were filled for weeks with possible sightings of the missing men in every city from Bangkok to Rio. _The Inquisitor_ ran a contest asking subscribers to pick a date for when the men would return. The most common selection was the square marked “Never.”

 _The Smallville Ledger_ had an article on page thirteen that mentioned Martha and Jonathan Kent’s adopted son Clark was missing. Yellow and red ribbons could be purchased and worn as a reminder that Smallville would not forget him. Money raised would go to purchase new uniforms for the band. Ribbons could be obtained from any Smallville High student at a cost of $1.00 each.

Smallville’s high school paper, _The Torch_ , featured a front page expose putting forward the theory that the six missing men were actually superheroes, and the recent appearances of Superman, Batman and Robin, and Spider-man were nothing more than a clever attempt to conceal the truth that some of earth’s greatest heroes had been kidnapped for purposes unknown. Miss Priscilla Franklin, who had painstakingly studied back issues of _The Torch_ and become a devotee of the Chloe Sullivan school of journalism, was removed from her position as editor.

 _The New York Post_ ran an article, well-written and meticulously researched, detailing the mysterious disappearance of six men following a school alumni event. The men’s names were listed in the article. Missing were: Clark Kent, Alexander Luthor, Bruce Wayne, Richard Grayson, Harrison Osborn, and Peter Parker. No evidence of there whereabouts had been discovered at the time of printing.

***

On the third day of working out, they were allowed a partner. Bruce couldn’t hide his disappointment as Harry ambled towards him across the gym.

“Hi, Bruce,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I guess I’m not who you wanted to see.”

Bruce tried to smile. “I’m probably not who you wanted to see, either.”

Harry shrugged, and the large black man appeared and directed them towards the ring. Bruce was going to help Harry learn how to fight.

***

Peter and Dick were having entirely too much fun on the aerial trapeze. Clark could tell. He couldn’t hear them through the glass window, but he could certainly see the smiles on their faces. Every once in a while, Dick would deliberately miss a catch, and Peter would shoot a web from his wrists and pluck Dick out of the air before he could hit the safety net. Clark could see the laughter shaking Dick’s body as the trainer dutifully released him from the web.

Clark wondered if he’d ever laugh like that again. He missed Lex. He missed his powers. He missed his life.

He doubted he’d ever again feel anything resembling the joy he saw reflected in Dick’s face.

***

Bruce found the mirrors to be disconcerting. Once every evening for an hour, one of the mirrors in the room would clear, giving a window into the adjoining cell. Except it was evident after the first evening that the inhabitant of the room had no idea when the mirror had turned. Bruce discovered this when he found himself looking in on Clark, who was sitting against the wall of the room, head in his hands, weeping. Bruce turned away from the sight, and avoided the mirror until it had turned reflective once more.

The next night Bruce found himself looking in on Dick, who was casually walking on his hands around the room. Bruce sat and stared, mesmerized by Dick’s grace and balance, the ease with which he moved. When Dick finally found his feet again, Bruce watched him stretch out his muscles. He peeled off his shirt and pants. Naked and beautiful, he ducked behind the stone shower. Bruce found himself aching for another glimpse of Dick’s lithe body when the mirror showed him his own desperate face.

Bruce lay down on his stone bed and didn’t move for the rest of the night.

***

“What’s your name?” Clark finally asked the large black man who was training them. He didn’t want to like the man, didn’t want to make friends with him, but the man was there every day, helping, supporting, working with him even when he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“Samuel,” he said with a smile. “You just call me Samuel.”

***

Malcolm Cain thought he was losing his mind. Everywhere he went, he noticed the number six. There were six red geraniums in the window box of the apartment below his. The apples he bought from a street vendor were six for a dollar. Every shirt he owned seemed to have six buttons that required doing up.

It wasn’t just that there were more instances of six in his life, but simply that he _noticed_ them. He couldn’t help it. Every time he saw a six, every time his brain counted up to six, it screamed at him in fiery letters: _SIX_.

He didn’t know why.

If he was a religious man, he’d be concerned that the devil was trying to send him a message.

Six stairs in the lobby of the post office. Six movies playing at the Cinema Six. Six shows nightly at the KitKat Club.

Everywhere he went, six followed him, stalked him, laughed at him from doorways wreathed with flame. Six serenaded him in the shower at six am while six droplets of water shivered down the tile wall. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help. Six whispered at him behind his eyes, peered at him from darkened windows, sat across from him at breakfast and mocked the six shrivelled raisins in his bowl of flakes.

There was something important. Something he’d wanted to remember.

 _Six._

And if he didn’t remember soon, he was going to lose his mind.

***

Bruce had spent a week training and observing, learning the habits of the guards, the schedules they followed. It was difficult to discern a pattern because things were always changing. Whoever was holding them provided enough structure to make them comfortable, but enough disruption that nothing was predictable.

It was exactly what Bruce would’ve done if he’d been holding six prisoners for a long period of time. The thought unnerved him.

When he wasn’t training, he watched. Clark was struggling to learn how to use muscles that had always been strong. The gift of a yellow sun. The Kryptonite collar made him human, and though there was a time when Bruce would’ve taken a certain delight in watching Clark try to manage like the rest of them, there was no pleasure in it this time. He studied the collar as much as he could from afar, considering ways it might safely be removed. He would need a closer look at it.

Peter had been given his spider abilities back. Bruce watched him climb the walls using only the pads of his hands and feet for leverage. Peter spun elaborate webs from his wrists, and mastered the trapeze in a matter of minutes. He’d never have the natural grace that Dick had, but they shared the sheer joy of flight. Sometimes Bruce thought he saw Peter measuring distances with his webs, testing the strength of strands, their staying power. Intelligence danced behind his eyes. Bruce wondered if Peter was also working on a plan to get them out. They needed one.

Harry had never been the best at anything. In school, he’d been an average student, an average athlete. Now, put into a training situation with four stellar athletes, he looked like the fat kid that was always a lap behind in gym class. It wasn’t that he was out of shape, he just wasn’t used to pushing his body like the rest of them were. Bruce knew Harry hated it. He could see it in his eyes, the resentment. He hadn’t spent a lifetime training for this, had been comfortable in the champagne and tuxedo world of having too much money and a recognizable name. Bruce could see his lips moving as he worked out, talking to himself.

He wondered if he should be worried.

When Dick entered the gym, it always took Bruce’s breath away. Every swing on the trapeze, every gymnastic arc through the air, Bruce revelled in the beauty of it. It had been a long time since he’d simply stood back and watched Dick move when he wasn’t directing him, giving orders or instructions, correcting his form. When they were in a fight, there was never time to admire the ease of Dick’s movements or the sinuous way he attacked. Bruce felt like he was discovering his partner for the first time.

For so long he’d concentrated on Dick’s body as a tool for fighting crime, something to be shaped and turned against the enemy. It had been too dangerous to acknowledge Dick moving from adolescence to manhood, to notice him as a sexual being. But now, Dick seemed to know he was performing for an audience held in rapt attention behind the glass windows. It made him even more sensual. Bruce remembered holding that body close, Dick’s mouth covering his own. He found himself growing hard every time he watched. It was almost painful.

He wanted him. More and more each day. Bruce imagined himself as Tantalus, punished by having what he most desired always just out of reach. He counted the days until he would have a sparring partner again. Prayed it would be Dick. Was disappointed when it wasn’t.

The voice had promised they would have overnight visits. Bruce would simply have to wait. Eventually Dick would come to him. Eventually this torment would end.

In the meantime, he would watch.

***

The Kents returned to Smallville, the apples in the orchard ripened and fell, the crops turned golden and were harvested. The ribbon campaign raised almost two thousand dollars for new band uniforms, but there was no word. Martha grew to hate those cheerful swatches of red and yellow fabric. She had to stop herself from tearing them off the lapels of people she met downtown, in the library, people who’d never even met Clark, didn’t know anything about him. Martha purchased her groceries and smiled at the kind faces who smiled sadly at her, and when she sat in the red truck in the parking lot, laid her head against the steering wheel and cried, no one bothered her.

Aunt May took the train back to New York. Every Thursday she made the long trek from her small house to Harry and Peter’s apartment downtown. She dusted and straightened, collected the mail, and set a bouquet of fresh daisies on the table. They had always been her favourite, and if Peter came home, he would know she’d been there and been thinking of him. Each week she emptied the dead flowers into the trash and replaced them with new ones. The petals fell against the table and she found herself playing the old game. He loves me, he loves me not. The boys will return. The boys will not. In the afternoon sunlight, she sat on the couch and wept, crushed white petals falling from her hands like tears.

Lucius Fox appointed a trustee from the board to see to the day-to-day running of LexCorp. He had his hands full with Wayne Enterprises and couldn’t stay in Metropolis, but he trusted the man he’d put in charge, and they kept in constant touch. As he gathered his briefcase for yet another meeting with Lionel Luthor’s posse of lawyers, Lucius wondered how long he was going to have to do this. His grey hair was turning white, his long days were longer than ever before. He was tired.

Lois Lane cleaned out Clark’s desk at _The Daily Planet_. His belongings didn’t even fill a cardboard filing box. There was the chipped coffee mug that said “Go Crows!” and a picture of four fresh-faced kids smiling at the camera. On the back was written in blue ballpoint pen: “Lana, Clark, Chloe, Pete - June 2002.” Lois threw out the half-chewed pencil and took the paperclips for herself, although she threw out the ones Clark had bent into shapes she couldn’t identify. In the back of the bottom drawer, behind a mouldering apple, there was a small box, heavier than it looked. The outside looked medieval, the metal polished to a smooth dark grey. Lois hesitated, then opened it anyway. Inside was a small Superman figurine, one of the cheap plastic ones that came in cereal boxes as a prize, and Lois rubbed it gently. They’d never quite gotten the face right, and the eyes just weren’t blue enough. Lois knew. She’d looked into those eyes often enough, and Superman had always been polite and gentle with her, but he’d never loved her the way she wanted him to. With the toy was a short note written in purple ink: “You’ll always be my hero. Love, LL.”

Jimmy Olsen took the filing box from Lois, labelled it: “Clark Kent - Do Not Touch,” and put it on the top shelf in the storage room. He figured Clark would be back for it sometime. He was sure he would.

Alfred spent too many hours in the dark confines of the Bat-Cave. He knew it wasn’t good for him, had chided Master Bruce for the exact same thing more times than he could count. Somehow, though, he couldn’t leave. He studied the files on the computer over and over, looking for some kind of clue to where they might have gone, might have been taken. Alfred spent days interviewing prisoners at Arkham Asylum. Harvey Dent laughed and said Bruce Wayne got what he deserved for being a two-faced friend. The Joker cackled and asked why he should care what happened to a billionaire playboy. “Now, if it was Batman that was missing,” the Joker’s eyes gleamed with hatred, “then I might be interested.” Alfred left, the sound of raucous laughter following him even into his dreams.

The Justice League met to determine a course of action. It was decided to release an announcement that Superman, Batman and Robin, and Spider-man’s unique skills were needed to lead a diplomatic mission at the request of the Green Lantern Corps. John Stewart made the announcement on behalf of the League and thanked the heroes for agreeing to what would likely be a long-term and dangerous mission. They might not return. In gratitude for their efforts, the Justice League would help police their cities as needed. Metropolis, Gotham City, and New York would not be left at the mercy of criminals masterminds and arch-villains.

A shot of the heroes waving good-bye made the cover of almost every major newspaper in the United States.

Thrall stared at it from behind dark eyes, traced the outlines of the pretenders with a gnarled fingertip.

Good, he thought. The world is accepting they are gone. They are dead. They do not exist.

The world has given them up. Their families may cling to their memories, but it is only a matter of time. Even now, they begin to accept lives built around their absence. Time moves on. They look to the horizon less and less. The world grows normal again.

Thrall smiled.

They are truly mine.

***

Malcolm Cain sat down to his Sunday morning newspaper. He drank his coffee, ate his croissant, and stared helplessly at the crossword. There was no joy in anything he did anymore, even these small rituals tainted by his obsession with the number six. He’d lost sixteen pounds. He couldn’t let it go.

Six people in line ahead of him to get coffee. A special on six croissants. Six across, the Russian word for truth. Six letters–PRAVDA. Six down, another word for aubergine. Six letters–PURPLE. He left the crossword and turned to the front page. There was a picture of waving superheroes, leaving on a mission. Story continued on Page A6.

Cain turned and read the remainder of the story. Something niggled at the back of his brain. He knew these men. Knew something about them. He stared at the picture, tried to remember if he’d ever met them, even seen them. He didn’t think so.

Below the story was a smaller headline: “Police Update Number Missing From Excelsior Fundraiser To Six.”

 _Six_.

Cain’s mind flooded with images he couldn’t control. Serving champagne to men in tuxedos, women in elegant gowns. A dark-haired boy shaking his head. Too young for champagne. That was going to be a problem. Five men still standing when they shouldn’t be. “High metabolism,” they’d said. Their names leapt out at him from the article: Clark Kent, Alexander “Lex” Luthor, Bruce Wayne, Richard “Dick” Grayson, Harrison “Harry” Osborn. He remembered the feel of fine Italian leather wallets, a score far bigger than the one his men were stuffing into bags. He’d gone to speak to Thrall.

Thrall. Oh, God. Cain closed his eyes and remembered that voice. Like God and the devil all rolled into one. Thrall letting it slip there were six men, that he would take care of them. _Six_. The last name rose up at him like a wisp of smoke. Peter Parker.

Thrall had told him to forget, and he had forgotten. Except he’d burned the number into his brain, left himself a clue, a reminder. It had taken him to the edge of madness, but now everything was clear.

Thrall had betrayed him. Double-crossed him. Taken the biggest prize of all and kept it for himself.

He was going to find Thrall and that scar-faced general of his and make them pay. Six times over.

No one crossed Malcolm Cain and got away with it.

No one.

***

“She said I could see him,” Lex insisted. “I want to see Clark. She said I could.”

He paced the small room staying as far away from the white-coated assistant as possible. Trey hadn’t touched him since that first time, but Lex still didn’t like to get too close. He didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust any of them. Everyone here wanted to hurt him just to watch him heal. He was like a cat with an infinite number of lives, dying over and over, waking up to find he had to experience it all over again. There were days he wished they would just end it already. Let him die in peace.

“You can see him,” Trey said, tying the elastic around Lex’s arm and injecting the Kryptonite solution. It was routine now. Lex didn’t even flinch anymore. The needle mark disappeared as soon as the needle pulled free from the skin.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Lex held his breath. It must be a lie. They’d lied to him before.

“Will I be able to talk to him?” Touch him, he didn’t ask. He didn’t actually know how long it had been, but he decided he’d be grateful with anything they gave him, even a small glimpse. As long as Clark was safe. Alive. He could endure this if Clark was still alive.

“No. But you’ll be able to see him. From behind a mirror.”

Lex nodded. It would be enough.

He counted the seconds until they came to get him.

***

It had been two weeks. Bruce noticed on the schedule that arrived with breakfast that he was allowed an overnight partner. He tried not to be anxious. Tried not to think about it. It was ridiculous to think they would send Dick to him. More likely it would be Peter or Harry. Someone he didn’t know as well. There was no point getting his hopes up.

But the thought dogged him through his time in the weight room, on the gymnastics equipment, fencing. He missed a parry and felt the tip of the uncapped sword draw blood down his arm. A hiss of pain escaped his lips.

“Your mind is elsewhere,” Samuel said, wiping the blood from the blade. “You should know better than to fight while distracted.”

“I do,” Bruce acknowledged, and pushed thoughts of the evening out of his head. It was difficult, but he’d spent a lifetime repressing. He folded his desires into a small paper heart and buried them in a metal box inside his brain. They would be there later when he needed a distraction.

***

“You’re too easy on them,” General Seine said. He watched the monitors, the five men restlessly pacing their rooms, waiting to see who would be granted an overnight guest.

Thrall’s voice was languid when it drifted up from the speakers. “They need hope. They need to believe there is the chance of getting out. It keeps them productive, active. They are working towards their top physical peak, and they will be magnificent specimens when their training is complete.”

“They could overpower the guards. They could escape.”

“Unlikely. You know that. These are not men who casually leave others behind. They will seek a way they may all leave together, and not finding it, they will bide their time, assuming an opportunity will eventually arise.”

“And in the meantime?” Seine watched the boy turning backflips in his room. He had an easy grace that was mesmerizing to watch, almost as hypnotic as Thrall’s voice.

“In the meantime, I give them small rewards. Let them touch one another, see they are still alive. They will begin to live for the rewards, for those fleeting moments of contact, communication. Men who needed no one will now desperately need companionship, courage.”

“What if you make a mistake?” It was a dangerous question, Seine knew. But he was not a cowardly man.

Thrall laughed indulgently. “You amuse me, Seine. It’s why I allow such impertinence.”

There was a gentle hum and Seine knew Thrall had closed the lines of communication.

He also hadn’t answered the question. It was unwise to believe you could not make a mistake, even if you were as gifted as Thrall. The General knew over-confidence had been many a leader’s downfall. He turned back to the monitors and prepared for what promised to be a most interesting evening.

***

The door to Bruce’s room opened, and Clark stumbled in. Just as quickly the door closed behind him, leaving the two staring at each other. It was the first time in two weeks they’d seen each other without a glass wall or a mirror in the way.

“I was hoping it would be you,” Clark said. He breathed a sigh of relief and grinned. His face had lost the greenish cast it’d had in the beginning. He looked better. Healthier. Bruce tried to match his smile, but failed.

Clark caught the disappointment in his face. “I’m guessing you were hoping I’d be someone else.”

Bruce shrugged it off. “Yes, but I wasn’t really expecting to get what I wanted.”

“No expectations, no disappointment, right?” Clark’s laugh was harsh. He ran a hand through his dark hair. The bangs were dangling in his eyes. “Why doesn’t that surprise me, Bruce?”

“I don’t know, Clark. Not all of us are used to getting exactly what we want all the time. Not all of us are living in a perfect black-and-white world.” Bruce could feel his voice growing louder, anger fuelling his words. It actually felt good to get upset.

“That’s rich,” Clark’s said. “What do you know about not getting what you want? You’re Bruce Wayne. When have you ever found something or someone you couldn’t buy?”

“Money couldn’t save my parents.” Bruce said the words before he realized they were out there. He’d never talked to Clark about his parents. He’d always assumed Lex had told the story for him.

“No, Bruce, _you_ couldn’t save your parents. There’s a difference.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Bruce felt the sting as if he’d been slapped. Apparently Lex had told Clark the story after all. Bruce pressed his lips together and fought to maintain his composure. He wouldn’t hit Clark, as much as he wanted to. It was hard, but he was determined to exercise his last shred of self-control.

“Oh God, Bruce. I didn’t mean that.” Clark was across the room with his hands on Bruce’s arms. He sounded genuinely horrified.

“Don’t touch me.” It was a warning, and Clark seemed to register the clenched fists, the flexing jaw muscle, the concentration it was taking Bruce not to render him unconscious with a swift jab to one of a half-dozen pressure points. Clark stepped back and let go.

“I’m sorry,” Clark said, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Bruce wished Clark would shut up, but he didn’t. “I was so thrilled to see you, to see you were okay, and all I’ve wanted to do for these two weeks is talk to you, figure out how we’re going to get out of this mess, how we’re going to find Lex–”

Clark’s words choked off, and Bruce heard him slump down against the stone wall, a six foot four pile of runaway emotions. Bruce unclenched his fists, with difficulty, and went to sit on the edge of the stone bed. He listened to Clark breathing raggedly, trying to pull himself together. Finally taking pity on the kid–in some ways Clark would always be as much a kid as Dick was–Bruce ran some cool water over a cloth and carried it to where Clark was sitting on the floor. Bruce sat beside him and handed him the cloth.

“I really am sorry,” Clark mumbled from behind the facecloth.

“I told you you never have to apologize for being honest,” Bruce said. It had been a long time ago, but he was sure Clark remembered. He saw the dark head nodding beside him. Yeah, Clark remembered. In some ways, the two of them had never really gotten along very well, especially when tempers were short or where Lex was concerned. They both loved him too much.

“It wasn’t honest, it was just mean.”

“A matter of interpretation.”

“Could you just let me apologize, dammit?” Clark looked at him with green eyes and a damp red face. He looked much younger than his twenty-two years. “Could we just do something the easy way for once?”

Bruce nodded. “Apology accepted.”

“Okay. Now what?”

Bruce didn’t have an answer for that. He stood up and offered Clark his hand, pulling him to his feet. He tried to think what Lex would do in the situation, what Lex would want him to do. Maybe he wasn’t very good at comforting or communicating, but he’d always done all right when it was just him and Lex.

It shouldn’t be this difficult, Bruce thought. He and Clark were friends, after all. Clark wasn’t a stranger, and they had a lot of shared history. Maybe he just needed to start thinking of Clark the way he thought about Lex–someone he trusted, someone he cared about. Those things were true, he realized. He simply hadn’t thought about it much before.

Bruce gestured at the two large polished stones that served as chairs, and uttered words he was pretty sure he’d never said to anyone in his entire life except maybe Lex.

“We need to talk.”

***

Peter stepped inside the stone room and looked at his companion for the night. Dick Grayson. The kid’s face fell, and Peter really couldn’t blame him. As for himself, Peter hadn’t thought too much about who he might end up with–he wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he wasn’t alone in a room with Harry.

“Hey, Dick,” Peter said, trying to keep the atmosphere light. The door snapped back into place behind him.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry. I guess you were hoping for someone tall, dark, and scary.”

In spite of his disappointment, Dick grinned. “Was it that obvious?”

Peter spun himself a hammock out of webbing and stretched out. “Totally obvious.”

Dick’s face lit up as he watched Peter swinging lazily in the hammock. “Can you make me one of those?”

“Now?” Peter saw the eager nod. “Sure.”

He surveyed the parameters of the room for a moment then spun a hammock from the edge of the shower to the wall just beside the stone bed. Dick eyed it with amazement. He touched it tentatively.

“Am I going to get stuck in it?”

Peter chuckled. “No, this kind of webbing is smoother, less sticky. It’s more like fine rope. Very strong and flexible. I have some control over the texture.”

Dick climbed nimbly into the hammock and lay back. “This is so cool!”

Peter smiled and closed his eyes. At least he’d made someone happy today. Maybe this overnight thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

***

Harry sat in his room and stared at the mirrors on his wall. One moment they’d both been shiny, reflecting back his own frustrated face, then they’d cleared and he could see into each of the adjoining rooms. That had never happened before.

To his right were Bruce and Clark. Harry had trouble locating them at first as they were sitting on the floor beside the door of the room. Clark appeared to be upset, and Bruce was comforting him. Or so Harry imagined. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the voices in his head, and so he made-up his own dialogue for the actions he saw.

Bruce reached out a hand to help Clark up.

“Let me help you, dear friend,” Harry whispered. He thought Bruce held on to Clark’s hand a moment longer than necessary, Clark smiling at him with warmth and gratitude. They moved in coordinated strides across the room to sit together on the polished stone seats. Clark laughed at something Bruce said.

“You’re so witty, Bruce,” Harry supplied.

They appeared to be talking, so Harry glanced at the opposite wall. Peter was spinning a hammock out of webbing, stretching out casually on it as if this were a vacation.

“Of course,” Harry murmured. “All of this is so easy for you. Spider-senses. Spider-strength. Superman. Batman. Robin. And who am I? Nobody.”

 _Somebody_ , said the voice. _Somebody. Green Goblin._

Peter was making a second hammock for the kid, the one who was like watching an aerial ballet. Dick. His face lit up with joy as he leaned back in the hammock. The two of them swayed gently in their web cocoons, and Harry hated them for being relaxed.

He couldn’t get comfortable. Everywhere he went in this room–any of the stone rooms that were identical except for the placement of the mirrors on the wall–he felt cold, uncomfortable. He didn’t sleep well. The food tasted bland. They kept putting him with Bruce for training, and though he liked Bruce–yes, he did like Bruce, didn’t he?–he knew Bruce was disgusted with him. He was weak, flabby, untrained. Bruce hated him. Harry could see it in his eyes as they sparred. He would leave him behind if he got the chance. Leave him like the weak member of a herd.

Harry heard the voice again, whispering in his ear: _Look at them. So happy together. So close. You’re not one of them. You’re alone. They’ll leave you behind. They’ll leave you. Like your father did. They’ll betray you. Like Peter did. You’re alone, Green Goblin. Alone._

All night the words echoed in his ears as he wrapped his shivering arms around himself and tried not to see the smiling faces that mocked him from every wall.

***

Lex peered at the mirror in front of him. It was about the size of a large round shield, and he was surprised to notice he didn’t look much different at all. His face was thinner, the bags around his eyes a little more pronounced, but he’d looked worse after an all-nighter or a three-day binge. A lot worse.

There were absolutely no outward signs of what he’d been going through. He could almost believe it’d been a dream. Almost, but not quite.

The mirror cleared showing a small room exactly like the one he was in. On the opposite wall was a stone slab that appeared to be carved out of the wall. Clark was sitting on it, legs spread slightly apart, bare heels bumping against the stone. His head was tilted back towards the ceiling, his mouth open, eyes closed. He looked tense. His hair had grown shaggy in the time they’d been here. Lex wasn’t sure how long it had been.

Another man was standing between Clark’s legs, back towards Lex, and Lex felt his breath catch as he realized it was Bruce. He’d know him anywhere, from any angle.

But what the hell were they doing?

The angle was misleading. Lex swallowed. They looked pressed together, one of Bruce’s hands cupping Clark’s face and tilting it up, Clark’s hands visible on Bruce’s back. Bruce’s dark hair brushed Clark’s face, his own face hidden against Clark’s neck. Lex tried to imagine a reasonable explanation for their relative positions, and couldn’t. It looked ... bad. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve assumed a moment of intimacy, but ...

He saw Clark’s hands tighten on Bruce’s back, his head leaning back even more, mouth open, saying something, maybe crying out. Lex wished he’d learned to read lips. Bruce had tried to teach him, but Lex had never had the patience for it. He’d always found better things to do with his lips. Or Bruce’s.

The mirror flashed silver and his own reflection stared back at him.

“Wait!” Lex cried to the empty room. “I want to see more. Please.”

An unfamiliar voice filtered in from somewhere above. “You do not set the rules here, Mr. Luthor. I do.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Thrall.”

Thrall? Oh, Jesus, Lex thought. Of course they couldn’t have been kidnapped by any normal person who’d hold them for ransom and then let them go. No, it had to be one of Clark or Bruce’s crazies with the whacked out names and the wardrobe to match, some nutcase who was probably threatening to take over the world or Gotham’s water supply and wanted to use them as leverage.

“Thrall, huh. And what’s your gimmick?”

Laughter rippled pleasantly through the speakers. “No gimmick, Mr. Luthor. Merely the ability to make others do what I say. I believe you knew some gentlemen like that in a town called Smallville?”

Lex thought back. Rickman, Tippett. Yes, he’d known men who could enslave you with a touch and a whispered command. He’d tried to kill Clark that night with an automatic machine-gun. Told him friendship was a fairytale. Laughed as he shot him again and again and again. Thank God Clark was impervious to bullets, although he hadn’t known that then. Neither of them had.

“Are you saying you’re like them?”

Laughter again. “They are to me as the Mississippi River is to the Nile. There is no comparison between my power and theirs. You will come to know this in time. You all will.”

“Wait!”

An extended pause and Lex wondered if the voice had left him, or if the man was simply manipulating him. More than a minute passed in silence.

Finally, Lex heard: “Yes, Mr. Luthor. What is it you require?”

“Let me see more. Please.” Lex knew he was begging, and he didn’t care. He’d given up more than his pride in this place. All he wanted was to see Clark and Bruce again. They were together. They seemed to be all right. It didn’t matter if it looked like ... something else. He knew them, trusted them.

“You won’t necessarily like what you see,” the voice promised.

Lex nodded. He knew when he was being manipulated. He’d done it to enough people in his life to know when the shoe was on the other foot. It was a lot like being trapped in a fun house except they were rarely fun, and they never showed your true reflection. Whatever he was seeing was a manipulation of some kind, a scene out of context. Lex had no way of knowing if he was even seeing it happening in real time, or if it were a recording. He steeled himself for whatever the mirror might show, accepted that when it was all over and done with, they could overcome any misunderstandings.

Right now, the only thing he cared about was seeing Clark and Bruce alive. He knew them well enough to know that whatever it had looked like they were doing, the truth was certain to be far more innocent than Thrall wanted him to believe.

The world would’ve had to change more drastically than it had for Lex to believe Clark and Bruce had suddenly become intimate. There was nothing Thrall could show him that would make him doubt the two people he trusted most.

Then again, Lex remembered the abandoned garage, the automatic machine gun in his hand, the feeling of power as he’d stood over Clark triumphant. Given what he’d experienced, maybe he shouldn’t believe anything was impossible.

Lex waited and watched. Eventually, the mirror cleared again.

***

Dick tested the strength of the web wire he’d had Peter spin across the length of the room. They’d pulled down the hammocks–Peter promising he could resecure them for sleeping–and now Dick was walking a tight-rope across the breadth of the room. He wrapped his bare toes around the web and concentrated on feeling the rope beneath him, the weight of the air around him. There was no net here, and even though he was only a few feet off the ground, he knew it would hurt if he fell onto the stone floor.

He practised until he could run the length of the room, skimming along the rope with his eyes closed. Then he did it walking on his hands. Peter whistled appreciatively.

“You’re amazing, kid. You could’ve been in the circus.”

“I was,” Dick said. “Ladies and gentlemen, spiders of all ages–”

“Cute.”

Dick just carried on with his spiel as he balanced on one hand in the middle of the web-rope. “May I present the only surviving member of the Flying Graysons, performing this evening for your entertainment!”

Peter didn’t miss the “only surviving” part. He should’ve remembered Dick had said he was a trapeze artist when they’d done their initial introductions way back when. He wondered if there was some direct correlation between being a hero and being an orphan. The two things seemed to go hand in hand. He’d bet someone, somewhere was doing a study on that very thing. And if not, they probably should be.

“So how’d a circus brat end up with a billionaire?” Peter asked.

“Long story.” Dick flipped backwards off the rope and landed on his feet. He made a sweeping bow. “Ta-da!”

“We’ve got all night,” Peter pointed out. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.”

“Deal.”

***

“Hold still,” Bruce muttered. The angle was awkward and trying to work so the mirrors were blocked without making it look like they were blocking the mirrors was becoming a pain in the ass.

“Ow, ow! My head only bends backwards so far, Bruce.” Clark’s voice was tight and breathless. “And my muscles actually get sore now.”

“Sorry.”

Bruce held back a smart remark and concentrated on examining the collar around Clark’s throat. He kept one hand cupped under Clark’s jaw, using the side of his head to keep him angled where he wanted while he ran a finger lightly over the entire surface of the collar, feeling for wiring. Nothing. Any of the tell-tale wires that indicated typical explosive devices seemed to be missing.

“Well?” Clark said, when Bruce finally let him move his head. He tilted it to one side and then the other, wincing as he heard something crack. His hands tightened on Bruce’s back where he’d been holding on for balance.

Bruce leaned in close, his lips right against Clark’s ear. “Honestly, it doesn’t look like it’s wired to explode unless they’re using some kind of remote device, which is possible, or some kind of new technology I’m not aware of. Which is unlikely.”

“I’d rather not bet my life on your knowledge of technological innovations. If you don’t mind.”

“I’m not suggesting we try taking it off tonight. Lex would never forgive me if I blew your head off accidentally.”

“He wouldn’t be any more thrilled if you did it on purpose.”

Bruce chuckled and nodded. He started to pull away when he felt Clark’s hands tighten on his back. Bruce remained where he was. He waited.

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

Bruce closed his eyes and nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.

“They could be lying to us. About Lex. He could already be–” Clark’s voice cracked and Bruce stiffened as Clark laid his head on Bruce’s shoulder. He wasn’t good at this. Not at all. What would he do if it was Lex? Or Dick? Bruce moved a hand into Clark’s thick hair and stroked it awkwardly. He felt hot tears seeping through the thin cloth of his tunic. Bruce let his other arm slide around Clark’s waist, holding him, offering what little comfort he could.

And if Bruce was honest, he was taking comfort as well. Despite all the other ways they were different, they had always agreed Lex was a treasure, and if Lex was gone, they would need each other more than ever. Bruce leaned into Clark’s embrace, gave in to the warm hands sliding around his back. He had no idea how long they held each other, but it was enough to make them feel human again.

“Shit, I hate this,” Clark murmured. “I hate feeling weak.” He wiped his eyes as he pulled away from Bruce’s damp shoulder. “How do you deal with this all the time?”

Bruce stiffened, and Clark started to stammer an apology, but Bruce cut him off. “You get used to it, Clark. It’s just part of being human.”

“Is saying stupid things part of being human too?”

“No, I think that’s strictly a Kryptonian trait.”

Clark glanced up and realized Bruce was smirking. He started to relax. “Who would’ve ever thought we’d be friends?”

“Lex,” Bruce answered confidently, and moved to turn off the lights. Darkness was better suited for their purposes, and they still had plans to make.

***

“Are you cold?” Dick whispered. They’d turned out the lights and retired to the gently swaying hammocks Peter had fastened to the wall with some extra webbing.

“A little. It doesn’t usually bother me, but now that you mention it, it is kind of chilly in here.”

“There aren’t even any real blankets.”

The woven mat for the stone slab was fine most nights, but it didn’t beat a wool blanket or a quilt. He would’ve given anything to snuggle under the heavy down-filled duvet on Bruce’s king-sized bed–preferably with Bruce. Dick’s bare arms were crawling with goose bumps, and he tucked them inside his tunic and tried to stop shivering.

“Dick, I know a trick to keep you warm, but it’s a little strange, and I don’t want you to freak out on me.”

Dick could see Peter sitting on the edge of his hammock, flexing his wrists.

“Um, it’s nothing ... um, sexual, is it?”

Peter snorted with laughter, the hammock quivering beneath him so much, he had to lean back and hang on.

“It’s not funny, Pete! I mean, how am I supposed to know? A strange man offers to warm you up, what would you think?”

“Okay, kid, settle down. I’m not about to molest you. Really. Besides, I think there’s a big bad bat who’d have something to say about that, and I have no desire to get on _his_ bad side.”

“So what did you have in mind?” Dick still wasn’t sure about this. He liked Peter. He really did. He reminded Dick of Clark in some ways, except way more relaxed and without the whole Superman baggage. Spider-man was just fun, and there was nothing as cool as being able to shoot webs from your wrists.

“Lie down and relax.”

“Pete ...”

“I swear, it’s not sexual. Dick.” Peter chuckled again, and this time Dick couldn’t help it. He laughed too.

“Stop making fun of me.”

“Have you ever thought about changing your name? I mean, what grown man wants to be called Dick?”

“This one. Now stop _being_ a dick, and do whatever you’re going to do.”

“Right, you’re the only Dick in this room.” Peter’s voice turned more serious. “Now, I promise, it’ll keep you warm, but it might feel a little weird. Trust me?”

“I guess.”

Dick felt a light coating of web wrapping around him. It wasn’t sticky exactly, more like being covered with strands of fine silk, and it wasn’t binding either. The coating got heavier as Peter sprayed more web around him, covering him from his toes up to his neck. He glanced over at Peter.

“You’re not going to eat me now, are you, Mr. Spider-man?” Dick asked playfully. He shifted experimentally, pleased that the webbing had some give in it. He could already feel himself getting warmer.

“If I’d wanted to eat you, little boy,” Peter leaned over him in the darkness, “I would’ve left you uncovered!”

Dick felt a hand ruffling his hair. He felt safe.

“Goodnight, kiddo,” Peter said, climbing back into his own hammock.

“Goodnight, Pete. Thanks.”

It wasn’t the same as spending a night with Bruce would’ve been, but it was something. Dick drifted off to sleep dreaming of bats and spiders playing tag on tightrope wires made of silk.

***

“Clark, will you just get up here?” Bruce leaned on his elbow on the stone bed and looked down at where Clark was shivering on the woven mat he’d insisted on placing on the floor.

“I’m fine.” Clark’s teeth were chattering.

Bruce rolled over and decided to leave him where he was. Let him be cold and miserable if he wanted. Clark wasn’t his responsibility. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. But somewhere in the back of his head he could hear Lex’s voice asking him to understand. Being cold, being weak was new for Clark. He wasn’t used to being human. He was scared and alone, and Bruce knew exactly what that felt like. Wouldn’t he have wanted someone to reach out to him? Wasn’t that exactly what Lex had done for him when they were kids?

And wasn’t it Lex who’d taught him how to reach out in turn? Bruce looked down at Clark fidgeting on the floor, arms hugging his knees, curling his body in as tight a ball as possible. The stone floor wouldn’t be offering much in the way of warmth. Yeah, Lex would expect him to take care of Clark, look after him.

 _You owe me one, Lex_ , Bruce thought. _A big one._

With a heavy sigh, Bruce rolled off the bed. He pulled the woven mat out from under Clark, dumping him unceremoniously onto the hard floor.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Keeping you from freezing to death.” The woven mat landed on the wide stone slab, and Bruce pointed at it. “Get up there. Now.”

“Who the hell do you–”

“Now, Clark!”

“–think you are?”

“I’m the guy who’s two seconds away from picking you up and _putting_ you on that bed.” Bruce let that sink in. “You know I can do it, too.”

Clark glared at him, but he seemed to recognize Bruce wasn’t bluffing. He climbed onto the stone slab and lay as close to the edge as possible. Bruce rolled his eyes and crawled up behind him.

“You’re going to fall off,” Bruce muttered.

“I have perfect balance.” As if to prove it, Clark inched closer to the edge. In the dark, he misjudged the distance and started to roll. Bruce whipped an arm around his waist and hauled him back.

“You _had_ perfect balance. You’ve got to give yourself time to adjust.” He didn’t relax his hold on Clark. “It took you years to learn how to use your powers. You can’t expect to learn how to get by without them overnight.”

“What would you know about it?” Clark’s voice was bitter and whiny. Bruce felt like pushing him over the edge. It was so tempting. One well-placed hand to the back, and ... Bruce took a deep breath and prayed for patience. Jeez, he’d thought Lex was frustrating.

“Clark–”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” And Clark was back to being his normal aw-shucks self. It was much harder to be mad at him when he was like that. “I’m just cold, and I’m tired and I’m worried about Lex. My parents must be going out of their minds ...”

Bruce nodded and let Clark talk himself out, rattle off all his worries, big and small, and Bruce knew exactly how he felt because he shared most of the same concerns. In some ways, the important ones, they weren’t all that different.

“Feel better?” Bruce asked when Clark was finally done unburdening his soul.

“I’m still bloody cold,” came the reply.

“Take off your shirt.” Bruce sat up and stripped his off, waiting for Clark to do the same. He saw Clark glance at him over his shoulder with a look that said, “you’ve got to be kidding.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Clark, I’m not hitting on you. They’ve turned off the heat.”

“And that’s a reason to take off more clothing?”

“Didn’t they teach you anything at that backwater little ... never mind. I forgot this is the school that didn’t teach you the difference between ‘raised’ and ‘razed.’ Cold Weather Survival 101, the short version. When the body is cold, bare skin pressed against bare skin is actually the best way to warm up.”

“You’re not suggesting ...” Clark trailed off uncertainly.

“No! Believe me, you’re not high on my list of people I want to go to bed with right now–”

“But I’m _on_ the list?”

Bruce missed the playful tone entirely. “Jesus Christ, Clark, what–”

“Joke, Bruce. It was a joke.”

Clark removed his tunic and handed it to Bruce without a word. He lay back down on the woven mat, Bruce settling behind him, an arm sliding under his neck and another around his waist. He grabbed Clark’s arms, crossed them over his chest, and wrapped his own arms over top. Clark was as tense as a sheep in a lion’s paw. One-handed, Bruce arranged the tunics over them, spreading them across bare shoulders, one fabric arm dangling down the side of the bed. Clark shifted, pressing back as he felt the warmth of Bruce’s skin start to seep in.

Bruce chuckled. “Yeah, _now_ you want to cuddle.”

“How far down the list am I?”

Bruce swore under his breath. “Pretty damn far, and still dropping.”

“What if I wore the boots? People seem to dig the boots.”

In spite of himself, Bruce laughed. He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Yeah, you got me, Superman. Red go-go boots are a real turn-on.”

“I knew there was more to you than black leather and rubber.”

“Like a warm body to keep you from freezing to death?”

“Damn right,” Clark said, but he was laughing. Bruce could feel it rippling through his body. Good. It would help warm him up faster. Bruce rubbed his hands along Clark’s cold arms, trying to get some circulation going.

“And _you’ve_ got a Fortress in the Arctic? God help us all. I’m surprised you haven’t been eaten by polar bears.”

“Hey, polar bears are actually pretty cool. They’re a lot like cows, actually.”

“Except with fur and fangs and claws the size of my head. They’re nothing like cows, Clark.” Bruce paused and considered who he was talking to. “Please don’t tell me you’ve named the bears.”

“Um ... no?” The answer wasn’t at all convincing.

“Please tell me you haven’t named them Bessie and Elmer.”

“Those are perfectly good names. And I named those cows when I was little.”

“Lex said you were fifteen.”

“He lied.”

“Uh-huh.” Bruce leaned his chin on Clark’s shoulder and peered down at his face. “What did you name the bears, Clark?”

“Promise you won’t tell Lex?”

“Promise.”

“Fred and Ginger.”

Bruce shook his head. “Good names. Are you warmer now?”

“Yeah.” Clark hesitated. “Do you want me to move?”

“No, this is fine,” Bruce said reassuringly, surprised it was the truth. He shifted so he could speak directly into Clark’s ear without having to raise his voice above a bare whisper. “Time to get serious. Clark, they want us to get close, want to make us depend on each other. It’s part of control. Give us comfort, then take it away. Nurture our reliance on one another, then use that to keep us from fighting back. It’s classic.”

“You and Lex and your ‘classic’ battle strategies. Sun-Tzu, Alexander the Great, Machiavelli. Not everything’s about war, Bruce.”

“This is, and you’d better believe that.” Bruce’s whisper turned sharp. “They’re listening to everything we say. Watching us. If we want to get out of here before they decide to use us for whatever it is they’re training us for–” Clark shifted as if he was trying to get a look at Bruce’s face. Bruce held him in place, using all of his strength to do it. “Yes, they’re training us. For something. Not out of the goodness of their hearts. They want to use us, and they’re going to be able to because they know we won’t sacrifice innocent lives. We’re going to have to make some hard decisions ahead. We might not all get out of this.”

Clark tried to shift again, and Bruce held on. He swung his leg over Clark’s and locked him in place. He hadn’t been this close to someone in a long time; it was laughable that it should be Clark.

“Clark, I’ll do what I can to protect Lex and Dick and you. The others, too.”

Bruce knew Clark would understand. There was a hierarchy to such things. They didn’t like to talk about it, but they knew it. You saved the people you loved first. It went without saying.

“But, Clark–and this is the most important thing I’ll ever tell you–if it comes down to it, I’m trusting you to look after them.”

Clark mumbled something no one but Bruce could’ve heard. Bruce shook his head and spoke directly into Clark’s ear. “You’re a hero with or without your powers. I’ve seen you do amazing things that had nothing to do with Superman. Remember, Lex fell in love with you long before the cape.”

Bruce tilted his head so he wasn’t breathing in Clark’s hair. He kept his whisper barely audible. Even if Clark had only a fraction of his super-hearing, he would still hear Bruce this close. “I need you, Clark. You know how hard it is for me to say that, but I do. I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s big, and we’re on our own. If anyone knew where we were, they’d have come for us by now.”

Clark nodded, and Bruce continued. “I’m not sure if they’ll kill us–I think they need us alive–but I wouldn’t be willing to bet our lives on it. I don’t have a plan yet, but I’m working on it. You need to keep testing your powers, seeing if there’s any change. Keep working on your muscles. The fight skills I’ve taught you don’t rely on brute strength. You just need to remember that. And so help me God, if you give up on me, I will kick your ass all the way back to Metropolis when we get out of here.”

Clark snorted and nodded again. “You know, Bruce, you’re exactly like the big brother I never wanted.”

Bruce smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You would.”

They lay in the dark in silence, Bruce feeling the bubble of warmth surrounding the two of them. It was a lot better than before. He thought it might be prudent to unhook his leg, which was still holding Clark immobile. There was a shift as Clark made himself more comfortable.

“Bruce?”

“Yeah.”

Clark paused, and Bruce wondered what was coming next. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now go to sleep. And stop shifting every two seconds.”

“Bruce?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, if this is about a drink of water, you can get out right now.”

Clark shook his head. A serious headshake. Great, Bruce thought. Now Clark wanted to have a serious conversation. Maybe he should push him onto the floor anyway.

“I need to tell you something–” Clark seemed to anticipate his protest, and rushed ahead, “–and you’re not going to like it, you’ll think it’s stupid, but I need to say it, so can you just brood quietly for a few minutes and let me get it out? Please?”

Bruce bit his lip and nodded so Clark could feel it. There was an exhalation of breath and Clark settled deeper into his arms. He was much broader than Dick or even Lex. It felt strange, but not unpleasant. Bruce realized he did feel a kind of brotherly responsibility towards Clark, and maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. He’d never had anything against the kid, just liked to push his buttons, and maybe there was a tiny, tiny part of Bruce that wished he could be the person Lex needed, but he’d always known they weren’t destined to be together. Clark was good for Lex, and Dick was good for him.

Clark breathed again and started to speak, his voice low. He sounded unbelievably young. “Since this started, since I lost my powers, I haven’t felt ... safe. I couldn’t protect Lex, couldn’t even protect myself. I wanted to curl up in a ball and die.”

“Clark–”

“Just shut up, okay? I need to say this.” Bruce shut up. “Tonight, with you, this is the first time I’ve felt safe since this started.” Bruce reflexively tightened his grip. He hadn’t known Clark felt like that, wasn’t really sure he wanted to know. “I know you wanted to see Dick, but I’m glad it was you. I needed you tonight. You’re the only person besides Lex who doesn’t expect me to always know what to do. And the fact that you trust me with the people you care about, even without any powers, well, it means a lot, Bruce. I guess it’s time I started acting like Superman again. I ... I want you to be ... to be–”

“Clark, let’s not say anything we’re both going to be embarrassed about for the next fifty years, okay?” Bruce didn’t think he could take Clark saying he wanted Bruce to be proud of him. He barely tolerated those kinds of conversations from Lex, and he’d known Lex a long, long time.

“Okay.” Clark seemed to pull himself together.

“You done?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Go to sleep. We keep this up, it’s going to ruin our image.” Bruce’s tone was as casual as he could make it, but he kept Clark close and even he could tell his body had softened around Clark, sheltering him more the way he would’ve held Lex. He was sure Clark could feel the difference too.

What a mess they were in if he and Clark were looking to each other for safety. Comfort. Conversation. More than ever, Bruce knew they needed to get the hell out of this place before life got any more bizarre. He and Clark were bonding.

Lex was going to laugh his ass off when he found out.

***

Lex stared into the darkened room and shook his head. It was like watching a silent movie, all shadow and grey, with only actions to tell the story. Lex wasn’t sure what story they were telling.

Clark and Bruce curled together in the dark. He’d seen Bruce strip off his shirt and look at Clark expectantly. Conversation of some kind, laughter, and Clark following suit, the Kryptonite collar glowing a faint green against Clark’s skin. Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark just as he’d done a thousand times with Lex. Except it wasn’t the same at all.

Part of him felt incredibly lonely watching the two of them huddled under their tunics, Bruce whispering in Clark’s ear. Lex saw Clark shiver and nod, and Lex couldn’t help but wonder what Bruce was saying to him. Bruce had made him shiver countless times over the years, whispering details of what he wanted to do to him in the dark ...

Lex frowned and looked back at the mirror, watching it silver over, hiding them from sight. He knew he wouldn’t get another viewing. But what he’d seen didn’t make sense. Clark and Bruce were too headstrong, too much alike to suddenly become lovers no matter what might have driven them together. Even if they thought he was dead, Lex couldn’t imagine the two of them ... no, he really couldn’t imagine it. And with that damn collar on ...

Lex finally realized what he’d seen earlier. Bruce must have been checking Clark’s collar, seeing if there was any way to disable it. They were aware of the mirrors, aware they were being watched. Yes, it made sense. Lex felt as if a weight had lifted off his shoulders. He hadn’t honestly been worried, but still it was best to have any suspicions allayed.

“So sweet that your former lovers have found comfort in one another’s arms, don’t you think?” The voice was Thrall’s.

Lex longed to point out that it was pretty damn obvious Clark and Bruce weren’t lovers, but he held his tongue. Better to let the bad guys think they had the upper hand. It gave you the advantage. Bruce had drilled that one into him from the time they were kids and he’d hauled himself off the ground and straight into Ralph Marconi’s waiting fist. It had taught him to appreciate the fine art of playing possum.

“Sweet isn’t the word, I’d use.” Lex tried to look traumatized. It wasn’t that hard considering they were being held prisoner by some nut who was manipulating them for fun. A nut who might actually be able to control people with his mind.

“Ah, it does seem rather cold, doesn’t it?”

Lex nodded, biting back a smile. Clark was cold. His powers were gone, his natural protection, and Bruce was doing the only thing he could. Warming him with his own body. That’s why there was nothing sexual in their body language. Either of them. Lex breathed out, feeling foolish for entertaining the notion of Clark and Bruce together for even a moment. They were looking after each other, and Lex couldn’t help the surge of pride and love he felt for the two of them, especially Bruce. It would’ve been twice as difficult for him to make the effort, and yet he’d done it. For Clark. More likely for Lex.

“I think I’d like to go back to my room now,” Lex said, thinking of falling stock prices and polyester suits. Anything to bring a horrified look to his face.

“As you wish, Mr. Luthor.”

***

Peter thought he heard something.

He opened his eyes, immediately alert. It took him a moment to remember he wasn’t alone, Dick’s hammock swimming gently across the room from him. He listened to the darkness.

There were small muffled sniffs coming from the other hammock.

Peter held his breath, and wondered if he should say anything. He’d spent a couple of nights battling tears himself. It was nothing to be ashamed of, and the kid was young, younger than the rest of them. He looked maybe seventeen, but Peter knew he was older. Eighteen or nineteen, most likely. It must be awfully hard for him to be here, especially being kept away from Batman. Peter hadn’t given their partnership much thought–it seemed like the kid wanted more than he was getting, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. How healthy could a relationship with a man who dressed up like a Bat really be?

But then again, who was he to judge?

The hammock swung gently as Peter shifted to get a better look at Dick’s face. He didn’t want to freak him out, but when he glanced over, the kid seemed to be in his own world. Staring at the wall.

At the mirror on the wall. The mirror that was no longer a mirror.

Peter adjusted his position slightly so he could see what Dick was seeing. They were looking into one of the adjoining rooms, the transformed glass gazing down on a stone bed. He could make out a broad bare back and dark hair. From the angle he couldn’t tell if it was Clark or Bruce. They had pretty similar builds.

Dick sniffed again. Bruce, probably, Peter thought. He didn’t think the kid would be crying over Clark, even though they did seem to be pretty close. Good friends, and all that. He’d almost started crying himself one of those evenings when he’d been feeling low and the mirror had shown him Harry, curled in a corner, talking to himself, looking hurt and angry and alone. Peter would’ve done anything to be able to reach through and touch him, comfort him.

These damn mirrors were just as much a curse as a blessing.

The dark-haired man shifted in his sleep and the tunic covering his shoulders slipped off, and Peter realized the man wasn’t alone. The edge of a second shoulder was visible, the arms of the man now clearly curled around the figure in front of him.

Peter froze. There were only two possibilities. Clark. Or Harry. And neither one was very appealing. Peter looked closer, examined what he could see. The person Bruce was holding seemed to be about the same size as Bruce; otherwise, Peter figured, he wouldn’t have even been able to make out his outline. So Clark then.

Peter tugged open his web blanket and knelt on the floor beside Dick’s hammock. He put a hand on his shoulder, startling him.

“What’s wrong?” Dick asked, blinking tears out of his eyes and trying to sit up.

“Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Me?” Dick settled down again. “Yeah, fine. Why?” He glanced at the mirror that wasn’t a mirror, and his face showed every emotion he was feeling. Peter squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sure it’s not what it looks like.”

“What? Oh, yeah, of course it’s not. Bruce and Clark? Never in a million years.”

“Dick–”

“I mean, come on. Sometimes they can barely stand to be in the same room together. The only reason they make an effort to get along at all is because of Lex. So, them being in bed together, half-naked and cuddled together, I’m sure it’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

Peter didn’t say anything. Just slipped an arm around Dick’s shoulders and let him talk it all out, let him be angry and hurt and confused. Let him talk about how much he’d wanted Bruce and for how long, and Peter learned more about Batman’s emotional problems than he’d ever wanted to know. But it was okay. The kid needed to talk, and it was good to be needed.

Peter shivered and Dick squeezed over to make room for him. The web supports got an extra coating just to be safe, then Peter climbed in with the kid and held onto him while he talked and sniffed until he finally fell asleep. Peter reformed the blanket around them. It was damn cold in here.

The mirror had long since silvered over, leaving him to wonder what was happening to them. Bruce and Clark seemed pretty damn cozy for two people who weren’t supposed to be friends. Luthor still hadn’t been seen in two weeks.

And Harry, Peter thought sadly. What was happening to Harry?

***

Harry lay in the dark, hating them all. He could see Clark and Bruce lying together on the bed of stone, tunics loosely draped over their large frames. Bruce thought he was weak. Clark thought he was weak. He could see it on their faces when they had to train with him, when Samuel _made_ them train with him. No one wanted to be stuck with Harry; it was like being back in grade school and being picked last. He hated it. He hated them. He was trying, didn’t they know how hard he was trying?

 _They don’t care. They don’t understand you. They never will._

And there, in the other room, Pete was fussing over the little bird like a mother. Holding him, touching his hair, comforting him. Pete was _his_ best friend

 _Ex-best friend_ , the voice whispered.

“Shut up!” Harry screamed at the empty room.

Pete should’ve been there to comfort him, make him a web blanket to wrap around his quivering form. He would’ve given anything to feel Pete’s arms around him. Like when they were younger. Like when his father had died, and Pete had held him and told him it would be all right.

 _He lied. He killed your father. Spider-man killed your father. Peter is Spider-man._

Harry shook his head. He knew all that. Right now he didn’t care. A shiver travelled through his body from his shoulders all the way to his toes. He was freezing. God, he hated being cold.

“Pete,” he murmured to himself. He just wanted things to go back to normal. Before he knew about his father and Pete and all the others. He’d wanted to be a scientist. No, that wasn’t right. He liked science, but he’d never been that good at it, never as good as Pete, anyway. Pete had asked him once what he wanted to be–no, _who_ he wanted to be. He hadn’t known how to answer. He was Norman Osborn’s son. He was destined to be a scientist, a businessman.

 _Green Goblin_.

“Leave me alone!”

Harry’s hands tangled in his hair as if they could stop the voices that way. Voices came from the walls, from the mirrors, from the dark corners of his mind. He didn’t know which were real, anymore. If any of them were real.

“But who do _you_ want to be?” Pete had asked him when they were teenagers. His blue eyes had been earnest, as if the reply really mattered, as if there were answers that had nothing to do with his name or his father or his money.

“I don’t know,” Harry whispered, and he wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to find some warmth. “I don’t know who I want to be. I don’t know.”

 _Green Goblin_ , the walls replied helpfully.

***

The next two weeks passed in relative peacefulness. Peter’s spider-powers were at full-strength, and Dick had taught him a number of things that were helping him move through the air more economically. Sharper movements, less energy. He was in the best shape of his life.

Even the days he took a beating on the sparring range or in the ring–mostly from Bruce–were good. Peter was pretty sure Bruce didn’t know he’d been Dick’s overnight guest, and he was hoping to keep it that way, even if everything had been perfectly innocent. Peter didn’t have the courage to ask Bruce about Clark.

Clark was getting stronger every day, and something had changed in him since the overnight visit. He was more focussed, more determined. Obviously Clark and Bruce had worked out a plan, or at least a reason for living, and Clark looked more like Superman than he had since this ordeal had begun. Whatever had happened between Clark and Bruce was a positive thing for all of them–for Dick’s sake, Peter really hoped it hadn’t involved sex. He didn’t think the kid could take it.

Harry, on the other hand, was even more distant. The few times Peter had worked out with him, they’d said very little to one another. Harry seemed haunted, deeply suspicious, even paranoid. Peter hardly recognized the guy he’d known most of his life. And he didn’t know what to do.

***

It happened while he was watching Dick. Just as he did at least once every day. Nothing short of a nuclear explosion or a rescue could’ve taken Bruce away from that window during the two hours Dick was centre stage. He saw how focussed he was when he worked out, how hard he tried. He was adding muscle without bulk, and Bruce had to give Samuel credit. The man knew exactly what he was doing. Each of their training routines was designed specifically for them with an understanding of their skills as well as their deficiencies.

Dick was becoming better with the kendo sticks. It was a discipline he’d never shown much interest in when Bruce had demonstrated for him, but now Dick seemed determined to make a good showing. Bruce supposed Samuel was a kinder instructor than he had been.

But Dick had an unusual tell. He liked to tap his stick on the ground before his attack. Poor form and it badly needed correcting. Samuel usually chastised him for it, but today Dick’s opponent was someone different. Samuel was nowhere to be seen. Bruce found himself counting the beats every time he saw Dick tap the stick.

F - L - B.

Morse Code. Dammit, Bruce thought. He’s going to get caught. Frantically, he started translating the letters in his head.

V - E - L - O

Bruce couldn’t afford to stop and write them down, and there wasn’t anything to write with anyway. He couldn’t tear his face away from the window. His expression neutral, he watched with the same rapt attention he always did.

But if they caught him. If they found out. God, Dick, it was too big a risk. Bruce felt his heart beat faster.

F - L - B.

The voice had threatened to punish them if they attempted to communicate. He would carry through. He would have to, or lose face. Dick was going to get them all in trouble, and for what? A jumble of letters Bruce couldn’t make any immediate sense of.

But at least Dick was doing something. Taking action, however ill-advised. Bruce felt a sting of conscience–what had he been doing? Clark? Talking and planning, but not _doing_ anything. Bruce began to wonder what was wrong with all of them. With him.

H - H - R - N.

He breathed. Of course Dick was too smart to send an open message. There would be a message hidden within. He stored each letter in its proper sequence in his brain. Watching. Waiting. Adding to the list.

P - L - N - Z

Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Long and short sounds buried within the rhythms of battle. Bruce couldn’t even hear them through the wall of glass, but he could see the movements, knew what the resulting taps would be. But so would anyone else who might be watching. Might be paying enough attention to ...

F - L - B.

A voice cut through the speakers. “That is quite enough, Mr. Grayson.”

General Seine. Bruce didn’t know which was worse–Seine or the soothing, disembodied voice that usually spoke to them.

Bruce watched as Dick stopped mid-swing, pulling his stick back into a ready position. He looked prepared to fight. His kendo opponent left the area as General Seine walked in wearing his black uniform and carrying the ever-present riding crop. Bruce reached up to touch the healed cut on his face. God help Seine, if he laid a hand on Dick. It wasn’t in Bruce’s nature to kill, it was something he’d always struggled against, but there were a lot of things you could do to a man without killing him.

Seine held out his hand, a passive request for Dick’s weapon. “Don’t be foolish, boy. You’ve already risked a great deal to convey a message. You don’t want to fight me.”

Bruce was surprised he could hear the conversation. It was being broadcast to them. He supposed it made sense. They should at least know what they were about to be punished for. It was no use to make an example of someone if people didn’t understand the lesson being taught.

“I was trained by Batman,” Dick answered proudly. He twirled his stick with a warrior’s mastery. “I’ve trained with the best.”

Bruce shook his head somewhat sadly. Dick had never lacked for confidence or faith in him. It was more than Bruce felt he deserved. He could remember every time that trust had been misplaced, each time he’d failed to be the person Dick needed him to be. There were too many to count.

“As you wish,” Seine said. Without taking his eyes from Dick, he held out a hand. Dick’s former opponent tossed his weapon to Seine. The man twirled it, testing the weight in his hand. Bruce could tell he was no stranger to the weapon. Dick was out of his league.

The two walked around one another, testing, observing. Dick tried a few opening strikes that were neatly met and parried. Seine struck low, pole swinging across the ground. Dick neatly leaped into the air and landed gracefully.

Bruce watched, hand pressed against the glass, wishing he could intervene. Dick was expending too much energy in his movements, his swings too large and cumbersome. Seine was blocking him without a thought, testing him with well-placed strikes. A pole to the back of the knees. A sharp crack across his back. A glancing blow on the arm when Dick moved too slowly. Dick was nimble, and he was learning quickly, but he simply didn’t have the experience with the weapon. It showed. Seine’s body blows became heavier, more frequent, placed to do the most damage. Dick began to favour his left side. His leaps were less agile. Blood trickled from a cut below his ear.

Dick backed away, regrouped and took Seine completely by surprise, using the pole as a fixed point from which to swing his body into motion, connecting with his feet against Seine’s chest. The general was knocked backwards, momentarily stunned. Bruce grinned. It wasn’t a conventional kendo move, but then again, Dick had learned his style on the streets of Gotham. Improvisation was far more important than adherence to the discipline.

Seine got to his feet, dodging a wicked blow to his head, and upended Dick with a strike to his knees. Bruce winced in sympathetic pain. Dick was going to be bruised from head to toe. He wished he could break through the glass, sweep in and carry him to safety, tend to his battered skin. He’d tried never to coddle Dick, but lately he was realizing how much he missed Dick’s open affection, his casual touches, and maybe Dick needed that from him as well. Even Bruce’s night with Clark had made him feel less alone. Bruce had forgotten how important touch was, how it was something you did with someone you cared about.

Seine moved in close, grinning. This was no challenge for him at all. He was playing with Dick, but Dick didn’t know that. As he swung again, Dick’s weapon was deflected easily, and the stick in Seine’s hand flashed through a series of manoeuvres Bruce could barely follow. The air was a swirl of black and bamboo, and then Dick was flat on his back, his staff rolling away, the general’s pole pressed against his throat.

“Enough.” The voice was back, and Seine ground the pole against Dick’s larynx for an extra moment before taking a step back. Dick rolled onto his side and coughed, obviously in pain. Bruce watched, feeling helpless.

“The rules were that punishment would be visited upon the others if anyone attempted escape or communication. Young Mr. Grayson has attempted to convey a message to his mentor. Seine, help Mr. Grayson to his feet so he may understand the consequences of his actions.”

None-too-gently, Seine grabbed Dick by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him off the ground, holding him by the back of his tunic as he stood unsteadily. He glanced towards the window where Bruce was standing. Dick’s eyes were full of pain. There was an apology there as well.

Bruce nodded at him, tried to be reassuring. Whatever happened, the message had gotten through. He would decipher it. Determine what Dick had needed so desperately to tell him. It would be all right. He pressed his open palms against the window to show it was okay.

He turned when he heard a sound behind him. It was as if air were being sucked from the room. Bruce took a breath and listened. No, it was the door sealing. Vacuum-sealed. Pressure-locked. Above him, he heard the sound of water running, and then he understood.

Usually when villains tried to drown him, it was slow and steady. A trickle of water designed to give him and Robin time to regret their attempts to bring the criminal to justice. Or at least, that’s what Bruce had always assumed. Instead, it had inevitably given them time to escape. Reach re-breathers, puncture the glass, or be rescued. Bruce knew he was alive at least in part because many of the people who tried to kill him really weren’t trying all that hard, or they just weren’t very good at it. He suspected he was about to find out what it felt like when someone was trying.

Ceiling panels shifted, opened like gaping mouths and water poured down on him. He grabbed for something to hang onto, but everything was stone, smooth and rounded. There were no hand-holds, everything ergonomic and curved. The water swept him off his feet, the force of the deluge battering his frame into the wall. He filled his lungs with air, and fought to stay above the water, but it was filling the room at an astounding speed. He calculated the small room would be completely filled within a minute. He suspected the other rooms were experiencing the same fate, and outside Bruce caught a glimpse of Dick’s horrified features.

Seine had let him go, probably didn’t figure it was worth the fight to hang on to a struggling Dick, and even as Bruce was swept under again, he knew Dick was outside, face pressed against the glass like when they’d gone to the Gotham City Aquarium and watched the sharks. Bruce could feel vibrations through the water, and although he couldn’t see, he knew Dick was pounding on the glass, fists bouncing off the shatterproof window.

The water in the room stabilized and Bruce knew it had reached its capacity, all air pressed out and replaced with water. There was no surface to swim to, nothing to do but wait for the heaviness in his chest, the moment when his brain would shut down, allowing him to pass out and water to seep into his lungs. He didn’t much like the concept of drowning, and strangely it made him think of Lex, the day he’d driven his car off that damn bridge in Smallville, the day he’d almost drowned and a green-eyed boy had saved him. Bruce was grateful to Clark for that.

Bruce floated between floor and ceiling. It was strange to see the room completely underwater, and it felt a little like he’d stumbled into a hidden room in Atlantis. Except he’d been to Atlantis with Aquaman, and it had never looked like this. He glanced around, located the lighted area where the window would be, and stroked that way. Dick’s face was there on the other side, blue eyes round and terrified. Bruce pressed a hand against the glass and tried to look calm. It was remarkably easy.

This was a punishment. They had no intention of killing them, and although the sensation of drowning was not pleasant, Bruce had no doubts that he would awaken from this, damp and breathless, having been sufficiently revived by someone. Of course, it would be a cruel fate to actually let them drown, to use one of them as an example, but Bruce suspected they were each needed for a role in some larger drama that was yet to play out. He had faith this wasn’t the end.

Dick’s hand pushed against his from outside the glass. Bruce looked at it with amazement. It wasn’t small or delicate by any usual definition. Every inch of Dick’s five foot ten frame was muscle. But in a world where men were larger-than-life, Dick seemed small by comparison. He had always used it to his advantage, letting opponents think he was slight or weak or younger than he was. Anyone would look small standing next to Bruce. Or Clark. And General Seine dwarfed Bruce by at least four inches.

Bruce could feel the burn in his chest. His lung capacity was good, but he couldn’t endure indefinitely. He floated, watched Dick’s mouth opening and closing like a fish blowing bubbles. It was amusing. He pushed away from the window, feeling his eyes starting to close. It wouldn’t be much longer.

An image of Lex floated in front of him. Lex in the shower at the mansion, his shirt soaked through with cold water, and Bruce blowing awkwardly into his mouth, trying to get him to breathe again. He’d pounded on Lex’s chest. Screamed at him. Begged him to breathe. He remembered the moment Lex’s eyes had fluttered open, and Bruce knew he was going to be all right.

Bruce’s lungs ached. The water was full of shadows now, and he was drifting. Dick pushing him into the pool at the manor. Laughter like running water. Lex, young and perfect, a naked invitation in his shower. Bruce had licked the droplets off his skin. He thought of the way the rain always fell at night in Gotham, the clouds pressing down on the skyline, holding the darkness in. The taste of salt when he’d first swum in the ocean, Alfred watching him from shore. Dick’s face covered with tears. Water dripping. Puddles in a dark alley. Pearls that sounded like rain against a rooftop. The pull of the tide. Ocean-roar in his ears.

Bruce was floating.

Drowning.

The world became a single drop of water, perfect as a pearl, falling into nothing.

***

“You’re killing them,” Dick screamed. He could see all of them swimming in rooms that had become instant aquariums.

Peter’d been quick enough to seal one of the water spouts with webbing, but it had only held for seconds and even though he’d made himself a protected air-filled corner, the water started to dissolve the webbing.

Clark without his powers, without the lung capacity that allowed him to swim underwater for an hour or survive in space without a suit when necessary, looked terrified. Dick couldn’t stand to see the look on his face. He’d never imagined Clark could be that afraid.

Harry simply glowered at him through the glass, shaking his head and staring. Bubbles slipped from his nose every few moments as he lost the battle to remain conscious. Dick could tell Harry blamed him, hated him. He wished he could take it back. All of it.

Dick kicked Seine in the shin and ran to the window where Bruce was. He looked perfectly calm, floating peacefully, as if he were simply meditating or attempting to achieve a state of zen-like transcendence. Dick pounded on the glass to get his attention, pressed a hand to the window and felt encouraged when Bruce’s huge palm appeared against the window. The man had enormous hands. Dick wanted to lean his face against the glass, wishing he could feel Bruce’s hands on him once more.

“They’re going to drown,” Dick whispered, knowing it didn’t make any difference at all. They were going to drown and it would be his fault.

Seine came up behind him. “It would appear that way.”

“This isn’t punishment, it’s murder.”

“What was the message, boy?” The honey voice filled Dick’s ears. He hated it. It was too sweet and too warm and felt artificial. It reminded him of Clark’s friend Lana who he’d only met once, but she’d been too perfectly nice and Dick hadn’t liked her at all. She was pink and sugary like cotton candy. The stuff had always made him ill.

“It was nothing.” Dick wished he could take back the message, would do anything if he could just take it back. Bruce’s hand slipped off the glass, his eyes starting to close. He was struggling to stay conscious. Dick watched bubbles of air spilling from his nostrils.

“I know you don’t want them to die. What was the message?”

“I told you, it was nothing!”

It was stupid, Dick realized. Selfish and stupid. He’d seen Bruce and Clark together, and something inside him had needed to step forward. Make Bruce notice him again. He knew there was nothing between Clark and Bruce–he knew it. If it had been Lex, he would’ve had reason to be jealous, but still it had hurt, and he’d needed to do something. Something to make Bruce pay attention–or maybe just pay. So he’d spent his nights devising the message, practising his Morse code, wielding an imaginary kendo stick.

And now he’d done it, apparently. A gesture worthy of a twelve year old, not someone who wanted to be treated like an adult. Bruce would be so disappointed in him when he figured it out. It was no wonder Bruce didn’t think he was ready for a relationship. No wonder Bruce still thought he was a kid.

“The message.”

“It was personal!” Dick said hotly, wishing he’d never, ever made the decision to do this.

“Nothing here is personal. Not even death.”

Dick understood with horror that the voice would let them die. The water wasn’t receding. They were drowning, all of them, drowning. And it was his fault. His stupid, stupid fault.

“The message, boy! Don’t make us ask again.” Seine shook him by the shoulder.

“I told him I loved him. I missed him. I was okay. That’s all. I swear, that’s all.” Dick felt his face turning red, pulse pounding in his throat. “Please, I swear. That’s all.”

“I believe you,” the voice soothed. Dick watched the water levels begin to drop, the blinds slotting down between him and the rooms in front of him. “They’ll be taken care of. Seine, return our love-sick child to his room, please. There will be no overnight visits this week. For anyone.”

Dick had never felt so ashamed in his life. He watched the floor every step of the way as Seine led him back to his stone room, remarkably dry and warm. He lay down on the woven mat and cried.

***

Lex got nervous when they left him alone for too long. Sure, there were people who came to bring his meals and give him injections, but no one had tried to shoot him, stab him, or otherwise inflict bodily harm in two weeks. It was unusual.

He realized it was probably insane to have adjusted to a schedule of torture, but since they’d stopped, he’d become paranoid. Every door opening, every squeak from the sound system had him anticipating the worst. But so far, there’d been nothing.

He spent his days watching the animals wandering around in the garden. At first, he’d assumed it was a greenhouse of some kind, but the more he watched, it appeared to be part of a larger eco-system. One attached to the outside. The quality of light that filtered down appeared to be natural, not artificial, and Lex watched it move in patterns across the garden from east to west. From what he could tell, his room faced north.

There was some sort of small short-tailed rodent who seemed content to sleep on sun-warmed rocks and nibble on blades of grass. Bees and other insects buzzed lazily through the area. The flowers were beginning to fade, dropping their petals, expelling their seeds. He hadn’t counted the days, but it felt like it might be October. A month that he’d been here. More or less.

Lex thought it bizarre that he knew the minute details of this enclosed space, but knew nothing of the larger world outside, the rest of his life. It was as if he’d become nothing more than a flower in that garden, a small creature trying to stay alive in a dangerous eco-system. He watched a small red-chested bird alight on a short shrub. He didn’t recognize the species, but then again, he’d grown up mostly in cities and pigeons weren’t exactly hard to identify.

“It’s a robin,” Lex said suddenly, and laughed. Dear God, he thought, it’s a robin. He’d never been one to believe in signs, but maybe it was time. The bird tilted its head at him, preened itself and flew away.

“Now, little robin, where’s the bat? And the spider?” That’s where Lex’s analogy ran out, but still, he felt hopeful.

One way or another, he was going to find a way out of here, find a way to the others.

He was going to survive.

***

Training had ceased for three days after the drowning incident. The mirrors had stopped changing, the blinds remained shuttered, everything simply stopped. The message was very clear. Their lives were absolutely at someone else’s command, and they would live or die accordingly.

Bruce had awoken in his room. He was in dry clothes and the room was moderately warm. He had no idea if he’d received any medical treatment at all, but his lungs felt clear and his body seemed none the worse for wear. As for the others, he had no idea.

He’d asked the guards, the people who brought the meals. Nothing but silence. He’d even offered his questions to the stony silence of the room, but there’d been no response. Punishment clearly included depriving them of human contact. All contact.

Bruce had to admit, it was effective. He’d always liked to believe he really didn’t need other people, could certainly get along well enough on his own, but then there’d been Lex who’d always managed to get under his skin. Who forced affection on him at every turn growing up and introduced him to a world of physical pleasure in high school. For a long time, he could convince himself it was because it was what Lex needed, but Bruce knew he sought out Lex’s affection as much as Lex sought his.

Even when he and Lex had pulled back from each other, gone separate ways, Bruce had still lived a very physical life, although his contact with others was more often violent than sensual. Then Dick had arrived with his acrobat’s body and his tactile personality. He touched everyone around him. Touched and hugged, tickled, patted, played, and Bruce had been completely taken in by his need to have that affection returned. He’d lost his parents, and Bruce was prepared to give him anything he needed to get through that kind of grief. Even allowing him to overwhelm him with affection.

Until Lionel and the battle to keep Dick. Then life had become all about training, a strictly “hands off” policy, and Bruce knew it was affecting their relationship, but he’d made the decision for both of them, and Dick resented it. There just couldn’t be anything between them beyond partnership, and especially not while Dick was legally his responsibility. Bruce figured Dick would get over it, grow out of his sense of gratitude or his teenage crush. He hadn’t really expected it to deepen into love–for either of them.

Bruce had asked if he might have a pen. A pencil. No. Apparently, they were aware of what he could do with one. He really only wanted it to write with, but he knew they would never believe him. He improvised. Broke the scab from the wound on his arm where Samuel had cut him fencing. Wrote the letters of the alphabet on the mirror with his blood. It took him a long time and he had to open the wound with the plastic fork that came with his meal. He began trying combinations against the pattern of letters Dick had tapped out.

F - L - B - V - E - L - O - F - L - B - H - H - R - N - P - L - N - Z - F - L - B.

He removed the last three letters, figuring they were the message repeating. There weren’t enough vowels for an anagram, so he concentrated on replacement systems. One letter having a direct correspondence to another.

He tried it forwards.

F - L - B - V - E - L - O - F - L - B - H - H - R - N - P - L - N - Z

U - O - Y - E - V - O - L - U - O - Y - S - S - I - M - K - O - M - A

And backwards. It didn’t take him long, and when he realized the message, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or weep.

“Dick, you stupid, sweet kid,” Bruce murmured, bandaging his arm with the tie of his tunic. “What am I going to do with you?”

He washed the bloody alphabet off the mirror, leaving only the message behind.

AM OK. MISS YOU. LOVE YOU.

***

Single training sessions recommenced and nothing was said about Dick’s message. Bruce watched, making sure each of them turned up during the day. No one appeared to be injured, although Bruce noticed they didn’t look towards the windowed rooms quite as often as they used to.

Dick was the one who seemed most seriously affected. After a furtive glance towards Bruce’s window, seemingly to determine he was there and all right, Dick didn’t look at any of them. Just went about his training as if none of them were watching.

For three days, Bruce watched Dick perform without an ounce of the joy he normally showed. Even when Peter entertained him on the high trapeze, creating webs for him to swing on, Dick’s face was solemn and serious. He didn’t laugh or smile. Bruce could see Peter was making every effort to get Dick to lighten up, but Dick was having none of it. He just shook his head and wouldn’t respond to anything that wasn’t related to training.

Every time he saw Dick without a smile, it broke something inside him. The kid was punishing himself for what he thought was his fault. Yes, it had been a foolish thing to do, but one of them would’ve tried it eventually, and there was no guarantee the message would’ve been anything more important. Bruce knew that. He had to do something even if it meant risking recrimination.

When Samuel suggested Bruce and Clark practice with the sabres, Bruce knew he’d found his solution. He’d been fencing years longer than Clark, and Bruce was familiar with all of Clark’s moves–Lex had taught him, after all, and Bruce knew every one of Lex’s moves. He had patterns, combinations he liked to use, so when Clark sliced hard towards Bruce’s side, he simply didn’t block. He turned into the blade as if he’d been expecting a different move, and the steel cut through his tunic and into his skin. Blood ran down his side.

“Jesus, Bruce!” Clark had his mask off and had dropped his sword in the time it took Bruce to drop to one knee. Clark and Samuel eased him onto the floor and staunched the bleeding.

“It’s okay,” Bruce murmured. “I must’ve gotten distracted.”

“Bruce, these aren’t blunted swords! I could’ve killed you.”

“No, Clark, it’s fine.” He looked up at him, held his eyes and willed him to understand. Clark shot him a nervous look.

Samuel simply shook his head. “You are distracted, Clark feels guilty, and that boy of yours–”

“What about Dick?”

“He has lost his joy.” Samuel pulled open Bruce’s tunic and pressed a towel against the wound. He looked at Bruce with dark eyes. “But you already know that. And I know–” Samuel pulled a spool of bandages from somewhere within his tunic and began to loosely bind the towel over Bruce’s wound. “–that you could have easily blocked that blow. Distracted or not.”

The three of them sat in silence for a moment. There was no one else in the gym. Bruce knew that didn’t mean no one was listening, but it would be difficult to bug a room this size.

“Samuel–”

The black man shook his head. “Do not ask me to help you. There are reasons I cannot. But your time here is growing short, and then, then I fear there will be little anyone can do to help you.”

“What do you mean?” Clark whispered, helping Bruce to his feet, slipping his arm under Bruce’s shoulder to give him support.

“Thrall has plans for you.”

“Thrall? That’s his name? The voice?” Bruce whispered it as they helped him limp towards the rooms.

“I say too much.”

“Please, Samuel. You know who we are.”

“And who he is. What he can do.”

They were almost at the exit. Bruce could already see the guards moving towards them. They would take him and Clark to separate rooms. He might never be able to speak to Samuel like this again, and he certainly couldn’t risk a stab wound every time he needed something.

“If there’s anything you know,” Bruce whispered frantically.

“I’ve taught you mind over body. You must learn body over mind. It is the only way.”

Samuel motioned for the guards. “This one has hurt himself,” he said with a dramatic laugh. “Let him rest, and bring me the boy. I think he needs to learn to fly again.”

The guards silently appeared on either side of Bruce and helped him to his room.

Their enemy had a name. Thrall. And they had a strategy. Body over mind. He wasn’t sure what Samuel meant, but he filed it away. The man had risked a great deal to give them even that, and Bruce was going to make sure that trust didn’t go to waste.

With some discomfort, he pulled Samuel’s make-shift bandage away from his wound. It wasn’t as deep as he’d thought and it wouldn’t take long to heal if he was careful. The way he trained, though–he would’ve been better off with stitches. Bruce was pretty sure they didn’t want to risk sending him to the medical facilities, especially if Lex was there.

Bruce eased over to the window and looked out. The training area was empty. Samuel had said he was going to get Dick. He had a few minutes.

He dipped his fingers into the blood seeping from the wound, and began to write.

***

Samuel slipped his arm around Dick’s shoulders as he entered the training area.

“Is Bruce all right?” Dick asked tentatively.

“The wound is deep enough, but he will heal without a scar. Are you ready to fly?”

“Is that what you want?”

“What do _you_ want?”

Dick shook his head. He didn’t deserve to ask for anything. He’d tried to say what he wanted, and all it had done was cause suffering for all the others.

They started to climb the trapeze tower, and Samuel continued talking. “He worries about you. You worry about him. You are both distracted, and neither of you is happy.”

“I could’ve gotten them all killed, Samuel,” Dick said. “It would’ve been my fault.”

“He does not allow anything he does not wish to happen. It would’ve been his fault, and his alone.”

“You mean the voice?”

“Aye, the voice.” They reached the top of the platform. Samuel didn’t usually climb the tower with Dick, and he was breathing hard when they reached the top. He waved for the other trapeze to be set in motion. “Remember there are other voices you must listen to. Stronger ones. Ones who speak the truth.”

Dick looked at him. Samuel rarely said anything to him that wasn’t directly related to training. The man was taking a huge risk. Dick met his eyes and followed where they indicated. Down towards the glass windows that had haunted Dick’s dreams the past week. He’d watched the others drown over and over again.

The last window, the one that was Bruce’s, was covered with red. Dick stared at it, horrified, trying to make out what it said. In dark block letters that had obviously been drawn with blood, Dick could read the message: AM OK. MISS YOU. LOVE YOU. Below it there appeared to be a happy face. With a crooked smile. And bat ears.

“Oh, God,” Dick said, putting a hand to his mouth. “He’s trying to be funny.”

“He is not an artist,” Samuel agreed. “And he is trying to be much more than that.”

“I know,” Dick whispered. It looked like a lot of blood.

“He is a difficult man. More accustomed to pain than love.”

“I know that too.”

“He only wants to see his robin fly again.”

Dick took hold of the trapeze in one hand. He closed his eyes and breathed. Centred himself. Emptied out the worry and the guilt and the shame. Made room for hope.

Bruce loved him. Would forgive him his mistakes. Would make his own foolish choices trying to reassure him.

And Dick felt himself filled with a lightness that had been missing all week. Samuel patted his shoulder.

“Fly.”

Dick opened his eyes and flew.

***

Malcolm Cain knew a limited number of things about Thrall.

1\. He could control people with his voice.

2\. He had spirited away six men who would fetch an incredible price, and had asked for no ransom.

3\. He had found General Seine in a mental institution in Metropolis.

4\. He was obsessed with a town in Kansas called Smallville. Thrall hated Smallville.

5\. Even more than Smallville, he hated superheroes. Called them a modern-day pestilence. (Cain remembered that. He’d used pestilence in one of his crosswords.)

6\. He believed he was infallible. That no one could resist his power. That no one would dare disobey him.

Six things he knew for certain. Six. It seemed only fitting.

Cain looked at the newspapers spread around his small apartment. He’d collected every piece of writing he could find on the disappearances. He kept returning to the photograph in _The New York Post_ of the superheroes waving good-bye. It wasn’t a very good picture. Fuzzy.

He looked through the back issues of _The Daily Planet_. There were clear photos of Superman in several issues, all taken by Jimmy Olsen. He seemed to be Superman’s unofficial photographer or something. His pictures were always up-close and in focus. So were the photographs from _The Daily Bugle_ , the ones of Spider-man. Taken by ... Peter Parker. Interesting.

All night long Cain made notes, lists, connections. Dates, sightings, names. As dawn broke over his balcony, he thought he’d pieced together a story preposterous enough it might just be true. There was one final thing he needed to check.

He needed to go to Smallville.

***

Life had become routine. They trained, watched each other train, slept and ate. Clark hadn’t forgotten about trying to get out of this place, but there didn’t seem to be a way to do it without getting everyone killed. They’d all tested the shatterproof windows, the mirrors, the stone. The drowning incident had convinced them the voice was serious, and now they had a name to put to it: Thrall.

Clark didn’t like the sounds of that. Guys with gimmicks were much more Bruce’s area. Clark usually had the ones who were almost indestructible or made of metal or sporting Kryptonite hearts. The easy ones. Bruce had the guys with brains–disturbed brains that worked in riddles or twisted games, or liked to carve a record of their kills into their own flesh. There was a reason why Gotham’s major architectural landmark was Arkham Asylum. Maybe it was true they got the kind of villains they deserved.

Maybe Thrall was just another product of an over-burdened society. Yeah, that Psych 100 class Lex had insisted he take was coming in really handy.

Clark looked up as the door slid open. He’d almost forgotten it was Overnight. Truthfully, he didn’t want anyone to walk through the door except Lex, and it was beginning to bother him more and more that they hadn’t seen any sign of him in six weeks. Lex healed fast. There was no way he would’ve still needed medical facilities, but Clark didn’t know how to go about finding out if Lex was all right. Thrall kept insisting he was alive. Clark didn’t feel like he was in a position to negotiate.

Clark smiled as Dick walked through the door and hugged him tight. God, it felt so good to hold someone again. Clark picked him up easily and spun him around.

“Whoa, you’re almost as strong as you were before!” Dick said, breathless, when Clark let him down.

“No, but I’m definitely stronger.”

Clark pulled at the collar. There were days he almost forgot the damn thing was there. He picked up Dick again, and under the pretense of hugging him, told him he was pretty sure his actual strength was returning slowly, that his body was adjusting to the Kryptonite and was making allowances for it. The main problem was a lack of natural sunlight. Clark wouldn’t know what his powers were really like until he could feel the sunlight on his skin.

“Do you think they’re going to pull that thing with the heat again?” Dick asked when they’d burned off some of their initial energy wrestling and tickling and generally just horsing around.

“Probably.” The strategy made sense, and Clark knew from all the hugging and wrestling that both he and Dick were feeling starved for touch. “If that’s the case, you’re keeping me warm tonight, kid.”

Something flashed across Dick’s face for an instant, and then it was gone. “Yeah, well, you can explain to Bruce why you needed to cuddle me.”

“Hey, he cuddled me last time, so I guess it’s only fair.”

Dick’s face froze, and Clark immediately reached out a hand to Dick’s shoulder and squeezed. “Dick, are you okay? You’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

“I’m fine,” Dick said. He was looking at Clark like he wanted to ask something. He took a deep breath. “So you were with Bruce last time? Last Overnight?”

“Yeah, it was a nightmare.” Clark glanced at him and noticed Dick was studying him anxiously. Jeez, Clark thought. Surely Dick didn’t think there was anything to worry about there? Not with him and Bruce. Clark almost shuddered. “You know me and Bruce. Oil and water.”

“More like gun powder and flint.”

“Well, that too. We only argued once.”

“Clark.”

“Maybe twice. He threatened to knock me out and put me on the bed if I didn’t stop shivering on the floor.”

The edge of a smile crept onto Dick’s face. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Clark grinned. “Me and Bruce spooned together on a bed of stone in a room that was colder than my fortress in the Arctic. It was hell.”

Dick started to laugh. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you to meditate.” Dick eased into a seated lotus position. He did a remarkably good imitation of Bruce: “‘The cold is only in your mind, Clark.’”

“Nope. Stripped off his shirt, _ordered_ me to do the same–”

“You’re making that up!”

“I am not! You know what he’s like.” Clark sobered up a bit, and continued. “I was having a really tough time, missing Lex and ... I know it wasn’t easy for him, but he was trying really hard not to kill me.” Clark paused thoughtfully. “I think we might’ve actually bonded.”

Dick sputtered, put his hand to his chest, and fell backwards on the bed, legs still bent in the lotus position. Clark never stopped being amazed at the kid’s flexibility. Dick seemed to have gotten over his anxieties; one thing he’d always liked about Dick–nothing kept him feeling down for too long. He bounced back emotionally almost as easily as he bounced into the air. The kid seemed to be an eternal optimist. Clark supposed he had to be–Bruce was pessimistic enough for all of them.

There were a few moments of comfortable silence and then Dick spoke from his position on the bed.

“I’m sorry I almost drowned you.”

Clark hopped up beside Dick, and patted his arm. “It’s okay. I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Get caught sending love notes by Morse Code?”

“Well, maybe not exactly that, but ... you know Bruce let me stab him just so he could get a message to you?”

“I know.” Dick’s voice was a whisper. “I guess we’re pretty fucked up.” Dick eased his legs out of the lotus and set his feet on the edge of the bed.

“This situation’s pretty fucked up.” Clark brushed Dick’s bangs out of his eyes. His hair was longer than Clark had ever seen it. He’d be able to put it in a ponytail soon.

“Fucked up beyond all recognition.”

“You know he hates it when you swear.”

Dick gave a small sigh. “I know.”

“You also know he loves you, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Clark grinned down at Dick and ruffled his hair. “And you know I love you, right?”

“I know.”

“And Lex loves you. And Alfred loves you. And–”

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up.”

***

The room Bruce entered was completely dark. It didn’t bother him. He was used to spending his evenings in the dark, and it only took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The layout of the room was identical to all the others. He could’ve found his way around if he’d been blind.

A shadow on the bed shifted. Bruce didn’t move. Assessing that he wasn’t a threat, the shadow settled back against the wall, muttering softly. Bruce listened carefully as Harry’s voice changed from his normal soft tenor to something deeper, darker, more sinister. The two voices carried on an argument, one berating Harry for his shortcomings, the other trying to defend him.

Bruce could tell it was a losing battle.

He concentrated on picturing Harry’s face, filtering out what was shadow and what was skin. It was difficult, but Bruce could see even as he’d gained muscle and tone, Harry’s features had sharpened, his cheekbones more defined and angular, his eyes darker and more recessed. If Bruce had had to choose a word to describe him, he would’ve said haunted.

They hadn’t been paying enough attention to Harry. They’d left him alone too long.

Someone had been playing with his mind.

Bruce moved silently, slowly, trying not to startle him. He lowered himself to the ground where he could watch and listen. Harry glanced at him furtively, paranoid, uncertain. There was silence. Bruce didn’t move.

Harry began to speak again.

Bruce listened, and as he listened, his heart began to sink.

***

“Clark?” Dick squirmed in his arms and rolled over to face him.

“What?” Now Clark had some idea why Bruce had been upset with him fidgeting. Holding onto Dick was like maintaining a grip on an eel. Just when you thought he’d stopped moving, he slipped through your fingers.

Dick slithered closer, his cold arms tucked against Clark’s chest. “I’m still cold.”

“So am I.”

Nevertheless, Clark held him tighter, resting his chin on top of Dick’s head. He was shorter than Lex by a couple of inches, slighter too, although Dick was solid muscle where Lex was simply fit. Dick seemed small in Clark’s large arms, and he understood a little more why Bruce found it hard to stop trying to protect him, even when he knew Dick didn’t need protection, particularly not from Bruce. Clark felt Dick swing a leg over his, bringing their bodies even closer. Everywhere.

“Um, Dick, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I’m fucking freezing, Clark, and unless you can spin me a web blanket, you’re of no use to me except for your body heat.” Dick snuggled closer.

“What?”

“Just stop panicking and get closer. If you can do this with Bruce, you can do this with me.”

“This isn’t exactly what I was doing with Bruce.”

Dick did something with his leg, and his groin was suddenly pressed against Clark’s thigh. Clark felt his cock twitch in response. This was definitely not a good idea.

“Dick, if I get any closer, I’ll be on the other side of you.”

“Coward.”

“Okay, let me put it another way. If I get any closer, Bruce will have a legitimate reason to want to kill me.”

“I take it I’m not getting a goodnight kiss, then?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Clark said, exasperated. “It’s fine to tease when life’s normal, Dick, but this isn’t funny. This isn’t easy for me either, you know. You’re not allowed to be pissed off at me for being with Bruce if you’re just going to do something that’ll make him jealous. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry.” Dick’s voice sounded small and far away. Clark figured it was coming from somewhere around the middle of his chest. He felt Dick shift, taking his lovely heat with him. Clark tugged him gently back.

“Stay put. I’m sorry.” Clark sighed. He didn’t know what to do with Dick, what to do _for_ him. Clark had done a lot of stupid things when he was young and worried about Bruce and Lex. Including kissing Chloe when he really wanted to be kissing Lex. It was obvious Dick was missing Bruce fiercely, and showing it in all the worst possible ways.

“I’m just really cold.” A pause. “And I miss Bruce.” Dick’s hair tickled against Clark’s chest where the tunic had fallen open and Dick had squirmed closer.

“I know. But for God’s sake, stop fidgeting, or we’re both going to be a mess.” Dick froze. Clark shook his head. “Just relax, okay? I know you’re a teenager. I’m not that far from it. Just try not to think about it.”

“Sure.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Alfred already gave me that talk.”

Clark seriously considered what the consequences of knocking out Dick might be. It might be worth Bruce’s wrath if it ensured him a good night’s sleep. Bruce might even understand–perfectly. Clark leaned his head so he could whisper directly into Dick’s ear. Dick shivered.

“No, a serious talk. It’s important.”

Dick nodded, but he was still trembling, and Clark suspected it wasn’t entirely from the cold. Dick’s cock was noticeable against Clark’s thigh. Great. Just what he needed: a horny nineteen year old boy with sensitive ears.

It was going to be a long night.

***

“Harry?”

Bruce approached him slowly. He’d listened for a long time, and Bruce knew he had to do something or they were going to lose Harry entirely. Maybe that’s what Thrall wanted. Bruce suspected someone had encouraged the voices in the first place, but now Harry was clearly dealing with two distinct personalities waging war inside him. It reminded Bruce too much of Harvey Dent, a friend he’d never been able to save, and Bruce was determined to save Harry.

“Harry?” he tried again.

The stream of conversation stopped, and Harry just looked at him as if he were a stranger. Bruce supposed he was. They’d never really been close. He and Lex had occasionally used Harry as a buffer in high school, dragging him along when they’d needed someone to temper their destructive tendencies. They hadn’t known that’s what they were doing, of course, but Harry had always been willing. He seemed to like spending time with them.

“It’s Bruce. Do you remember me, Harry? We were friends in high school.”

“Friends,” Harry spat out. “Never friends. Lex’n’Bruce, Bruce’n’Lex. No room for Harry.”

Bruce shook his head. Sometimes it was hard hearing the truth. “You’re right, Harry. Lex and I were best friends. We weren’t always the kind of friends you needed. But we can still be friends now. I want to help you.”

Harry laughed. It was the kind of laugh that suggested madness. It sounded like too many people Bruce had visited in Arkham. He stepped across the space and grasped Harry by the arms. Harry struggled, screamed, demanded to be released. Bruce hung on.

“Harry! Do you remember the first time we came to you for help? Lex was hurt. You were going to bandage his ribs.” Bruce could see Harry shaking his head and nodding at the same time. He was trying to remember. Bruce could see it in his eyes. “You helped us, Harry. We trusted you.”

“Lex–”

“Yes, Lex trusted you. He always liked you, Harry.”

“Lex came onto me.”

Bruce grinned. Well, that was no surprise whatsoever. “I told you he liked you.”

Harry’s voice had softened. He stopped struggling. “But he always liked you better.”

Bruce didn’t have an answer to that. He realized Harry was shivering; he rubbed up and down his arms, trying to infuse them with warmth.

“Harry, let me help you. The six of us need each other.”

“You don’t need me.” His voice was bitter again. Angry.

“Yes, we do, Harry.” Bruce knew it was true, and tried to put that truth into his words. “We need each other if we’re going to get out of here.”

Harry trembled beneath Bruce’s hands. “You won’t leave me behind?” His voice was plaintive.

“No! We won’t leave anyone behind.”

It was why they hadn’t done anything yet, Bruce knew. He wasn’t prepared to leave anyone behind. Neither was Clark. They’d talked about it. There was never any question. It was the six of them, or none at all.

“The voices. Bruce, the voices–” Harry’s eyes were wide and dark. He was afraid. Bruce knew he had every reason to be.

“I know. I can help you tune them out. I can teach you ways to keep them at bay. You have to trust me, though.” There was exhaustion in Harry’s dark eyes. He was tired of fighting. “Can you do that?”

Harry nodded, and Bruce climbed up beside him on the bed, seated himself in a position for meditation. They had a few hours left. He could teach Harry enough to begin. It would be difficult, though, and the voices were already incredibly strong.

It would have to be enough.

***

General Seine stared at the monitors.

“You will allow this to go on?” Seine spoke to the empty room, knowing he would be heard.

“Meditation techniques. Simple mantras. They are as parlour tricks against the voices in Mr. Osborn’s head. Let Mr. Wayne try his best. It will not be enough.”

“And them?” Seine pointed at the other monitors where Dick and Clark were snuggled close together, holding a low conversation spoken directly into one another’s ears. “The listening devices are not sensitive enough to pick up such talk. They know that. They are planning.”

“Let them.” Thrall’s voice was relaxed. “There can be no escape. They know that too.”

“And what about Luthor?”

Seine hadn’t been allowed to play with him for two weeks. The doctor had wanted to monitor him when his system was completely normal. Apparently the Kryptonite injections had increased his strength and stamina, as well as his healing. There was no way to know if the effects would be permanent or not.

“Mr. Luthor is passing through the control phase of the project. You will be allowed to continue your tests of his physical limitations soon enough.”

Seine smiled. It would not actually be soon enough for him.

“And what about ...” Seine trailed off. He didn’t really know what to call it. The Event. The thing Thrall had been planning for weeks, since that fool Cain had dropped six very important men into Thrall’s lap. Seine thought about it. Hadn’t there been preparations before then? He couldn’t remember clearly. But the Event was the reason the heroes were training, being made to look their very best.

Thrall’s smile could be heard through the speakers. “Soon. Everything is coming together just as I planned. It will be a most interesting Event. Unlike anything ever seen before. They are coming from all over the world for it. To see the mighty laid low.”

Seine didn’t see the point of such fanfare, knew Thrall didn’t need the money the Event would bring, but he liked the spectacle of it. Seine suspected Thrall would’ve liked to live in gladiatorial times, deciding people’s fates with the motion of a thumb. The theatricality of it was lost on Seine, but the bloodsport. That he did enjoy.

“One thing, General.”

“Yes, Thrall.”

“Mr. Luthor has been requesting to see Mr. Kent again. I think it’s almost time he was allowed to see him in person. Touch him. The time will be very soon. You will know when. You know what to do.”

Seine smiled broadly. Oh yes, he’d been waiting for this moment.

“It will be my pleasure.”

***

It was a risky plan, and one that would never have worked except that fate was on their side. It wasn’t really a plan at all, Dick realized, but by that time it was too late, and he’d deliberately missed his mark on the uneven bars, and although it went against everything in his training, he landed hard. Not hard enough to break anything–he’d been careful–but he could feel the twist in his ankle like someone was wringing out a rag, and the fiery burst of pain was enough to make him cry out as he went down. He didn’t have to pretend to be hurt as Samuel rushed over to him.

“Is it broken?” the big man asked with concern.

“I–I don’t know,” Dick said. It wasn’t even a lie. He was pretty sure it was only a bad sprain, but the fingers of pain shooting all the way up his leg were making it hard to tell.

Tears welled up in his eyes. Jesus, that really hurt. This had been a dumb, dumb idea. Why hadn’t he let Clark take the fall like he’d wanted to? Except that Clark was still unsure of his capabilities, his muscles, and would’ve been more likely to seriously injure himself accidentally. No, it was right that it was Dick. After all, he’d been responsible for the drowning incident. He owed them.

Samuel waved for a bucket of ice to be brought. He wrapped Dick’s ankle, feeling carefully around the swelling.

“I cannot tell how bad it is. I will take you to the doctor.”

Without waiting another second, Samuel scooped Dick up in his arms and carried him across the training area as if he were nothing more than a child. Dick caught a glimpse of worried faces as he bobbed along in Samuel’s arms. Clark nodded in support, but it was Bruce’s face that haunted him. Palms flat against the glass, eyes full of helpless worry, and suspicion. God, Bruce knew him too well, knew he should’ve made that grab without any problem. Bruce was trying to figure out what he was up to, and what it was going to cost them.

He wished he could reassure Bruce he wasn’t being foolish, that it was for all of them he was doing this. But there was no way except a pained smile cast in Bruce’s direction, and then Samuel was carrying him out of the training area and down a long corridor.

Well, Bruce had gotten himself stabbed to send Dick a message. It seemed only fair Dick take a fall to get into the medical facility. It was the only way they were going to find out if Lex was still alive. It was worth the risk.

***

Lex was having a terrible morning. He’d accidentally broken off the shower nozzle while adjusting it, and then he’d lurched backwards into the temperature controls and managed to scald himself badly before he got the water turned off.. Well, he never really got the water turned off. Cheap metal faucets. Tying a towel over the spout wasn’t much of a solution at all, if he was honest. He apparently didn’t know his own strength anymore, and there had been water all over him and the room and his clothes before he’d finally given up and banged on the door, asking for help.

His flesh was blistering along his right arm, and the sensitive skin on the back of his head was prickling like a thousand tiny needles were pressing there. More than two weeks of being left alone by Seine, and Lex’s skin didn’t know what to do when it encountered real pain again. It felt like he’d been doused in oil and set on fire–something Seine had yet to try. Lex couldn’t say he liked the sensation. He’d be happy to never have to be in pain again.

The guard who opened the door stared at Lex suspiciously. His gaze swept over Lex, dressed in damp loose pants and holding his raw red arm, and at the still-sputtering faucet in the background, steam still rising from the shower and making the mirrors run with shiny wet rivulets.

“I’d better take you to the doctor,” the guard said, and stepped aside so Lex could exit.

Lex already knew the way.

***

When Lex pushed through the swinging door of the medical lab, the guard half a step behind him, several things happened at once. He noticed there were more people here than he’d ever seen before. Dr. Messina and Trey, of course, and General Seine lurking like a shadow in the corner, but there were two other guards and a large black man who stood as tall and broad as Bruce. They were all circled around an examining table.

“Ow, ow, that hurts,” came the voice from behind the wall of people, and Lex was moving towards the table instantly. Only two things registered with him: the voice was Dick’s and someone was hurting him. Lex shoved back the guard who attempted to slow him down, ignoring the pain in his arm where the burn was fresh.

“Dick! Dick?”

Lex heard his name shouted in response. He caught sight of a pale face with bright blue eyes, dark hair hanging down to his shoulders. The guards were stepping in between them now, but Lex simply shoved one aside. The man careened into the wall with what seemed like an excessive amount of force. Lex knew just enough fighting technique to be dangerous, and he didn’t think, simply acted, sliding into an easy roundhouse kick, knocking the other guard to his knees. There was a howl of pain as the man slumped over, clutching his chest where Lex had connected.

The doctor and Trey had stepped back, clearly not interested in getting in the way, and General Seine merely stood and observed. That was the most unnerving, and Lex knew he’d be concerned about it later. Now, though, the only thing he wanted was to get to Dick.

The large black man stood in front of him. Lex recognized the look in his eye was protective, and Dick was leaning around the man, trying to talk to him.

“Lex, God, Lex, we weren’t sure if you were alive. Samuel, it’s okay. It’s Lex.” Dick thumped the black man–Samuel, apparently–in the shoulder. “He’s not going to hurt me.”

Dick rolled backwards off the table, tumbling awkwardly to the floor, and both Lex and Samuel reached for him. The black man looked at Lex suspiciously, then relented and took a step back. Lex slipped an arm under Dick’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet, never letting go of him. He noticed Dick was limping, his ankle swollen and red, and Lex backed the two of them towards the wall, away from everyone else in the room. He wrapped both arms around Dick, and couldn’t even begin to express the relief he felt as Dick’s arms circled his waist and hugged him tight. The pain in Lex’s arm didn’t matter anymore–nothing mattered except the fact Dick was alive and safe, and that must mean the others were too.

“Mr. Luthor.” It was Dr. Messina who spoke. “No one intends to hurt the boy. We were simply seeing to his injury.” She gestured towards Dick’s ankle. “If you release him, we’ll bandage his ankle and see to your arm. You have a nasty burn.”

Dick seemed to notice Lex’s arm for the first time. “Jesus, Lex, what did you do?”

“I’m not letting him go,” Lex said, and tightened his grip, knowing he was probably crushing the kid, but really not caring. It was the first contact he’d had that didn’t involve pain since this ordeal had started, and he didn’t trust any of these people not to hurt Dick. Bruce would never forgive him if he let something happen to him.

“There is a simple solution.” Everyone looked up as the familiar soothing voice broke over the speakers. “Dr. Messina, attend to the boy and Mr. Luthor. Allow them some time to assure themselves neither is irreparably harmed. Everyone else may leave.”

“That is unwise,” General Seine said, stepping forward.

“Samuel will stay with them. I believe the boy trusts him–”

“The _boy_ is nineteen and can speak for himself,” Dick said indignantly, but everyone ignored him.

“--and Mr. Luthor recognizes a fellow-protector when he sees one. Samuel will be more than enough to ensure there is no attempt at escape.”

Lex swallowed. It was clear in Thrall’s voice that Samuel wouldn’t be alive very long if they did attempt anything.

“Are the terms agreeable, Mr. Luthor?”

Lex knew he wasn’t in a position to negotiate, and Thrall knew it too.

“Yes,” Lex said, and helped Dick back to the examining table.

***

“Was it your idea?”

Bruce pressed Clark into the mat and held him there with a wrestling hold. Clark squirmed and tried to find purchase on the sweat-stained mat, but his foot slipped. Bruce tightened his hold, and Clark could feel pins-and-needles all the way down his arm.

“Does it matter?” Clark asked, lips tasting blue plastic. “Jesus, Bruce, he’s fine.”

“You don’t know that. He isn’t in his room.”

“Break.” The bored fill-in trainer seemed to think they were spending too much time with Clark face-first in the mat. Clark tended to agree. He rolled aside and stood up when Bruce let him go. They took positions facing each other.

Clark was kissing the blue plastic again within three seconds, Bruce’s knee pressing painfully into the middle of his back. Clark reached back and grabbed for Bruce’s ankle, but he couldn’t get any leverage.

“Samuel isn’t here either,” Bruce muttered. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

“He’s ... probably ... looking after ... Dick.” Clark struggled to get the words out with Bruce putting his full weight on his lungs.

“Break.”

Clark was determined to stay on his feet this time. He lasted five seconds before Bruce pinned him again, face-down, and whispered into his ear. “If anything happens to him–”

That was it. Clark had had enough. He used every ounce of strength he had and managed to get an elbow loose. He rammed it back into Bruce’s face, feeling it connect with bone. Bruce’s hold relaxed momentarily, but he didn’t let him go. It was enough for Clark to get them rolling, and they struggled against each other, technique and style gone, pure aggression and fear and worry kicking in. Bruce’s fist just missed Clark’s face. Clark hadn’t been in a street fight in a long time, and he really didn’t want to be in one against Bruce.

So much for bonding.

Clark knew it was a cheap shot, but he aimed for Bruce’s injured side, feeling guilty at Bruce’s hiss of pain. He got behind Bruce as he fell, pinning his arms against his back. It was Clark’s turn to whisper harshly.

“If you think for a minute, I would deliberately let anything happen to Dick, you don’t know me very well.”

Bruce struggled, using his feet to try to shake Clark’s balance. They were both breathing hard.

“If he can find out if Lex is alive, it’s worth it,” Clark said through clenched teeth.

“Break.”

They rolled apart and began again. Clark could see blood seeping through the tunic where Bruce’s wound had reopened. He started to say something when Bruce’s foot caught him in the mouth, and he went down hard, the taste of blood on his tongue. Bruce was relentless, and landed on Clark’s chest with a stinging blow to the throat. Clark managed–barely–to get his legs up in time to roll them both backwards, pushing Bruce off and to the side. Clark scrambled over to him, and used a knee against his bleeding side to hold him in place. He could see the sweat standing out on Bruce’s forehead. He was obviously in pain.

“Bruce,” Clark said under his breath. “I need to know if he’s alive. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it, you don’t lie awake at night and wonder if Lex is dead. I know you. And maybe it was a stupid plan, but we have to know. We have to get out of here. Soon.”

Bruce’s eyes fluttered closed, and Clark saw him nod his head. Clark let him go and stepped away. There was blood on his own clothes–it was Bruce’s.

“You’re more stubborn than the Wilson’s mule,” Clark muttered, and knelt down. Gingerly, he pulled back Bruce’s tunic to look at the wound. It was bruised around the edges, and the bandage was a bloody mess. Clark suspected Bruce really needed stitches.

“I cannot leave you two alone for a minute,” Samuel’s jovial voice reprimanded them.

“Yeah, aren’t you two supposed to be best friends?” Dick, tottering on crutches and grinning broadly, hobbled in flanked by two armed guards. “You’re beating each other black-and-purple.”

Clark noticed Dick only had eyes for Bruce, and it seemed to be mutual. Bruce pushed himself up, using Clark’s leg for leverage, and started to go to him. The guards raised their weapons instantly.

Samuel held up a hand to stop him. Clark thought Samuel was an extraordinarily brave man to stand between Dick and Bruce.

“You can see for yourself, he is fine.”

“Get out of my way, Samuel.” Bruce’s voice was a low growl.

“He will not allow it.” They all knew who “he” referred to.

“He’s not God.”

“Here, he is.” Samuel moved to stand beside Bruce, slipping an arm gently around his shoulder. The gesture reminded Clark of something Alfred would do. Bruce didn’t move. “You can see he is fine. His ankle is only swollen. It will heal.”

“Please,” Bruce whispered, and Clark didn’t think he’d ever heard Bruce sound like that in his life. “Just let me–”

“No.” Samuel’s voice was sad, but firm. “The boy has had an exciting day. He needs to rest, and you need to heal. Clark will bind your wound. No one will bother you until I return.”

Clark saw Samuel squeeze Bruce’s shoulder, then amble slowly across the room. Bruce seemed to be drinking in the sight of Dick, and Clark wondered if he should do something, say something. He held his tongue. Dick’s smile lit up his face, and he ran a hand over the curve of his scalp and nodded at them before he was ushered out. When the door finally closed behind Dick, Bruce sank to his knees as if the effort of holding himself up was too much. Clark knelt beside him.

The bandage, wet and bloody, slipped easily from Bruce’s skin. The wound was ugly and red. Clark looked up as someone brought him water, a rag, fresh bandages, a small sewing kit. Samuel was trusting them a great deal. Probably more than he should.

“I haven’t seen him in six weeks.”

“What?” They lived in glass rooms. It was impossible not to see each other. Clark had seen more of the others than he’d ever wanted to with the twisting mirrors and the glass wall.

“The training. They partner me with everyone except him. I spent the last Overnight trying to get Harry to stop talking to the voices in his head.”

“Jesus, Bruce. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. It’s not like we get a lot of chance to talk.”

Clark cleaned the wound with water and antiseptic. He pushed Bruce gently onto his other side, so he could work more easily. He threaded a needle with black thread and looked at the wound. He’d never done this before.

“It’s just sewing a seam,” Bruce said. “I know your mother taught you to do that.”

Clark nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you.” It was true. He didn’t want to hurt Bruce–at all. Frustrating as he was, the man was also the person who kept him going, and had taught him more about being a hero than anyone else.

“I trust you.”

Clark leaned a hand against Bruce’s hip and squeezed gently. He slid the needle through the tip of the wound, easing it into the skin on the other side, pulling the edges together gently. He heard Bruce wince, but he nodded and Clark kept going. Slow even stitches. Small tugs to draw the wound together. They were silent while Clark worked.

Six weeks. Clark hadn’t realized–he hadn’t been paying attention, he supposed–that Dick and Bruce were always apart. No contact of any kind. No opportunity to touch. They could look at one another, but never touch. Clark could only imagine how frustrating that must be. Yes, he was aching for Lex, but he hadn’t been tempted by seeing him every day, watching him move and laugh and live a few feet away, always out of reach.

“If it makes you feel any better, he was with me last Overnight.” Clark realized they’d developed their own way of speaking about such things. There were Partner Days and Overnights, and he didn’t know what day of the week it was, but he knew when the next Partner Day was planned. They’d become accustomed to their lives here. Clark didn’t think that was a good sign.

“And before that?”

“I think it was Peter. Dick said something about a blanket made of web. You were right about the heat thing.” Clark knew it was hard for Bruce to think of Dick in anyone else’s care. “The kid’s got damn cold feet.”

Bruce chuckled. “And he’s more fidgety than a puppy. First time he crawled in with me, I had to hang onto him just so I could get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” Clark said, laughing. He stopped when he caught the hurt look on Bruce’s face. It was hidden quickly, but not quickly enough. Clark tied off the thread at the end of Bruce’s wound. “Nothing happened. And that’s my definition of nothing, not Lex’s definition.”

In spite of himself, Bruce smiled, and Clark patted himself on the back mentally. It wasn’t easy to cheer Bruce up at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times.

“I miss him. And Lex,” Bruce admitted, voice quiet.

“Me too.”

“Sometimes I even miss you.”

Clark understood perfectly. “Me too,” he agreed softly.

Clark taped clean gauze over the wound. There was every reason in the world to move away, but he found himself content to sit there, hand on Bruce’s hip. That one point of contact seemed enough, and neither of them moved.

“You think he’ll just let us sit here for awhile?”

“Seems that way,” Bruce said. He sounded tired.

“Maybe you’d better tell me about Harry.”

***

It was only after he was back in his room that Bruce realized he still didn’t know if Lex was alive. Dick had been grinning, beaming at him, but maybe that was just an echo of the joy Bruce was feeling at seeing him without a glass wall between them.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture Dick entering the room. What he said. What he did.

He’d called Bruce and Clark best friends. Not really. Not by a long shot, really. Lex was the only best friend Bruce was ever going to–

Bruce felt his breath catch. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe he was simply interpreting Dick’s phrasing that way because he wanted to believe Lex was all right.

But Dick had said “black-and-purple” and that was a Lexism from way back. Bruce knew it was Dick’s way of telling him Lex was alive. Somewhere in this building, Lex was alive and Dick had seen him.

Dick hadn’t waved good-bye, he’d stroked his hand over his head. Not through his hair, but a solid palm along the curve of his scalp. Dick had started doing that to tease Lex, a subtle dig about being bald.

“Thank God,” Bruce whispered as he lowered himself to the floor. “Oh, thank God.”

Lex was alive.

***

In an identical room three doors down from Bruce, Clark came to the same conclusion at the same time.

If the rooms hadn’t been sound-proofed, everyone in the building would have heard his scream of joy. As it was, the technician monitoring Clark’s room for sound had to remove his earpiece because the whooping was so loud. He didn’t get what the guy was excited about, but then again, he didn’t really get these superhero types at all.

He decided this was a good time to get a cup of coffee. That kid in the lab made damn fine coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2004/2005. This is not abandoned, but real life intervened. I'm working on it again (2011). Some of the writing might be a bit uneven because it was started so long ago, but I hope you'll bear with me.
> 
>  _Shadows & Stone (overview):_ In this universe, Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, and Harry Osborn are classmates at Excelsior Prep, an exclusive all-boys boarding school in New England. The school accepts boys from Grade 5 to Grade 12, inclusive. Lex and Bruce start together in Grade 5, around the age of 9, and graduate together eight years later. Harry joins them in Grade 9, but leaves during his senior year to attend high school back in New York with his friend Peter Parker. In general, this universe follows Smallville as a baseline for time, so the meteor shower happened in 1989. Lex had just started attending school there that fall. Lex's mother dies in 1993 when he is 13 and in Grade 8.
> 
> Bruce, Lex, and Harry are all roughly the same age within a year. Clark Kent is roughly 5 years younger than Lex. Dick Grayson (Robin) is about 8 years younger than Bruce. Peter is about 2 years younger than Harry (accelerated student)
> 
>  _Shadows & Stone_ currently consists of four separate but related series:
> 
>  _Beginnings_ \- how the characters met or how they made important connections during the early years at Excelsior Prep (Lex, Bruce - ages 9 to 13)
> 
>  _Dark Spaces_ \- the teenage years at Excelsior Prep (Lex, Bruce, Harry Osborn - ages 13 to 19)
> 
>  _Smallville Stories_ \- Clark and Lex forge a friendship of legend in Smallville. Bruce and Lex have a complicated past. (Clark/Lex, Bruce - set within Smallville canon, AU after S2 "Heat")
> 
>  _The Future is Ours_ \- Clark Kent and Lex Luthor are all grown up and sharing a life in Metropolis. Clark has taken up the role of Superman (with guidance from Bruce Wayne) and has formed the JLA. Stories set after WiP "Six."
> 
> In this universe, Bruce Wayne's parents were stabbed to death in an alley. Bruce sustained a knife wound in the attack, and carries the scar on his left side.


End file.
